A Castle of Silence and Bones
by dreams.of.destiny
Summary: Smut. Dark. The result of desire is never pretty and the result of unrestrained desire is a train wreck. You cannot enjoy, but you cannot look away either. The art of breaking is easiest learned. WWII, alternate-universe. Japan/China
1. the failings of immortality

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

_what if_--?  
WWII was won by the Axis Powers.  
Imperial Japan gained control of Asia.  
The world, as we know it, was never there.

_please note_--  
Chapters are short, subtle, sensual; sexual.  
This is nothing like Half A Millenium  
I am going to beat the JapanxChina out of me with this fanfiction.

x-----------------------------------------------------x

x

**001**.  
the failings of immortality  
(_for if I were a sparrow, I would take to the sky, and if I were human, then I would just die_)

-

-

-

-

-

He, Kiku, brings him here, bundled up and bloody and torn and hurt from limb to limb. Yao cannot open his eyes, and it is not simply because of the heavy gauze in front of them. His hands are shaking, quaking, from the ride and those memories and those bloodstains that just will not go away.

'I love you,' Kiku has said.

And so, the other _lovingly_ takes him.

_Lovingly_ breaks him.

Tastes and mutates and makes Yao his own--_lovingly_, of course.

Walls are breaking, bending, shaking, and then crumbling away altogether. He feels them, feels his people. They quake, in anger and fear and something like complete and utter repulsion. They taste the metal of bullets, the silver of swords; the distilled delicacy that the death itself. His people, their generals, the other nations, they envy him, fear him, respect him.

(_They think he would make a good fuck._)

Irony, irony--he would think it bitter, if he did not know it so well.

The sword, Kiku's sword, _Imperial Japan_'s sword, cuts deeper and deeper. Even if it reaches his heart, even if it pierces his heart, he will not die, and they both know it.

Lovingly, _lovingly_.

It begins.

x-----------------------------------------------------x


	2. drown in tears and ashes

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-----------------------------------------------------x

x

**002**.  
drown in tears and ashes  
(_the best reminder of better times lies in the heaviness and hellishness of current ones._)

-

-

-

-

-

Lazily, Kiku makes his way about the bed. Yao sleeps with recently-dried trails of tears streaking already-pale cheeks. There is an art to the whole thing, a method to the madness.

Ludwig knows, Ludwig's people are the ones who created such an idea, after all.

An entire group, an entire race, really, of people, completely wiped out. Such a pity, his recorders and writers say. The emperor banishes them all, but the generals make sure of a 'higher' punishment. And so, their corpses continue to hang, just inches away from the palace entranceway, because it is only through these sort of actions that any sort of permanant 'learning' will be done.

Yao wakes with a start, eyes wide and filled with terror (Kiku smiles, ever so delightfully, _ever so madly_) when Kiku binds his two wrists together. He would have used cuffs, but then Yao might have been more bruised and scratched than necessary, and that _would not be good_, now would it?

The other cries out something in a foreign language, _disgusting_, Kiku thinks, because it is.

Indulgently, much like one would pardon a pet, he strokes Yao's tear-stained cheek, capturing lips with lips. The other is soft, pliant, _weak_--as always. No matter, Kiku thinks, for he is strong, and will more than make up for Yao's faults.

That is what _love_ is meant to do in the first place, isn't it?

Yao sobs and screams and cries throughout the night; a cacophony of sorrow and regret, and the memories of even weaker days. For the love of the Emperor, Kiku cannot understand why. A name, _Kiku's name_, manages to slip out in between a gasp and breath. But it is the wrong name, a name that Kiku has thrown away years and years and years before.

Delicately, he smooths Yao's hair down, whispers a promise to the other, something about changing to his language or another.

In response, Yao buries himself deeper into the mattress, shoulders shaking and wordlessly mouthing weaknesses of the past.

(_But, isn't that love as well?_)

x-----------------------------------------------------x


	3. falling slowly to the earth

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-----------------------------------------------------x

x

**003**.  
falling slowly to the earth  
(_we break and destroy ourselves more frequently than we do others._)

-

-

-

-

-

Yao has not been to Japan in a long time, but when the gauze is finally removed from his eyes, he instantly recognizes the wall and the floor and the ceiling and the bed to be from one of the inner chambers of the Akasaka Palace.

He remembers the height of the ceiling; the westernized inventions (made in Germany, he knows--_he was your ally first_--because only the best quality can suit the palace of 'guests') that click and clack in the early hours of the morning. It's a mutation, not the seamless hybrid he thought it first to be.

The world, and the people of the world, they are like that.

He went, once, to this very room.

Kiku comes again, today, and an unpleasant shiver runs through Yao's spine (_that face, those eyes, that horrid, horrid touch; those feelings_) at prior events. He wants to convince himself that he knows the person clad in white and gold and blood-red-splatters before him. He wants to convince himself that last night was only a nightmare, did not really happen.

The captor--_his captor_--approaches, comes closer. There is a curve of lips; cool silence as always.

'Stop, stop,' he begs _in a tongue that is not his own_ when Kiku advances.

This is not a dream.

You are not going to wake up.

There is no hope for anything anymore.

He would say that the other is too close for comfort, but even being in the same room, in the same grande stretch of a palace, is too much. He's known hatred and pain and betrayal through the course of lifetimes and lifetimes. He's kneeled and bowed and been forced to submit and submit and _still submit more_ because there is nothing more he can give.

Shallow breaths, a flutter of lids; Kiku has not even raised a hand yet.

And just like that, the other leaves.

He clutches tightly to the silk-spun sheets about him.

(_There is no escape_.)

x-----------------------------------------------------x


	4. watch, this is beauty as it crashes

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-----------------------------------------------------x

x

**004**.  
watch, this is beauty as it crashes.  
(_there is something fascinating in the obscene, the unseen_)

-

-

-

-

-

He has ordered cameras and microphones installed in every possible corner and space of the room. Of course they are all of the best technological standing, German engineering coupled with Japanese design, and near-impossible to see, unless one had been trained to find them. He observes Yao through them, in between watching the troops march and reading the latest sets of demands towards the fallen 'Allied' powers.

(_they did not rise together, and so, they did not fall together._)

Kiku hurts, and he knows that Ludwig is hurting as much, if not more, because of the war. It has ended, and yet the Allied forces continue to fight. Foolishly, of course, because there was never any chance of victory in the face of heaven-mandated superiority.

His emperor, the one that will lead his people to certain glory and _honor_, has asked for him to stay behind. Kiku understands, for it would not be good for the soldiers to mistake him to be one of them, and it is merely a matter of principal and morality. It has nothing to do with the blood-drenched smile that he saw his (_worshipped, beloved, heavenly_) commander make that night of the massacre.

(He was smiling the same smile, after all.)

And so, he takes to watching the only prisoner in the whole of the palace.

Yao wakes and wanders, sometimes throughout the room, and othertimes throughout the depths and channels and courses of his mind. Kiku watches, something like fascinated and something like enraptured, because every movement, every motion, which (_his_ captive) the other makes compels him to--

_To_---?

His nightly visits are not enough to sate this thirst, this want.

In a languid fashion, Yao raises the clear crystalline shine of cut glass, putting it to his lips, as if to sip, only to stop right before. His face shakes, contorts, in something like fury and rage, before Kiku sees the glass fly clear across his monitors (_across the room_), to land in beautiful pieces, each iridescent and distinctly original in their own right, only to fall to the matted floor.

With half-lidded eyes, Kiku watches as Yao glances, contemplating, towards the plate of uneaten food. A hand, shaking and trembling and yet somehow still steady in the hesitation, reaches out, stopping when fingertips graze the edge of the finest porcelain England is willing to _give up_.

(It was a parting gift from 'Arthur', who lies with his soldiers, once more.)

A jerk of the head, and Yao is looking straight at the camera, straight at Kiku. There is pain, there is hunger, there is disgust; all in the other's eyes. And yet, unlike before, there is no confusion, no disbelief.

Only hate.

Kiku barks forth a laugh, high-pitched and _mad_, for Yao's hatred is all-consuming.

(His love is more than enough to drive him over the brink.)

'_For who--?_'

'_For you._'

x-----------------------------------------------------x


	5. this is an elixir of power

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-----------------------------------------------------x

x

**005**.  
this is an elixir of power  
(_if you cannot get what you want, then you do not want it_)

-

-

-

-

-

Kiku storms in the next morning, disregarding the shattered glass on and about the left wall of the room. His eyes yield to a silent fury, and Yao would have been perturbed, had he not been so used to the other's anger by now. There is a hint of something else, but he refuses to acknowledge it--it is always easier to pass the motive off to hate, after all.

"The cooks are up in arms, will you not eat their food?" It is a command, not a question.

Yao opens his mouth, wants to say that this is not his food; that this is not his place to eat or drink and he would be more likely to starve to death than to touch that would-be-poison, only to close it without a word.

What is the use, after all--?

Without warning, Kiku approaches. Instinctively, Yao flinches, only to be completely caught off-guard when the other grabs his chin, tilts his head, and forces the liquid contents of a vial down his throat. Spluttering and coughing, he shoves his captor away; that liquid has no taste.

For once, Kiku does nothing when Yao is gasping and wheezing (_for death_) on the floor. Impassively, he watches (waits).

It sets in, all at once, and he finds himself succumbing to the bliss and drought of unconsciousness. His eyelids are heavy, he cannot keep them open for much longer (_is this death? he wants it so much--so much_), and images of scenes he cannot place run through his leaden mind. A forest, a cry; four children and an animal. Broken hearts, sad songs; a promise that never could have been kept.

They exist; all of them do--though he _cannot place a single one_ of them in his mind.

Arms, two of them, take hold of the middle of his back and the crook of his knees. This godforsaken mattress, Yao feels it underneath him. Slowly, slowly, he is set atop it, and then he feels his mind (_his world_) spin and shake and break apart completely.

Bending down to pick up the fallen vial, Kiku examines it, without emotion. His gaze drifts from the vial to Yao, and then to the shards of broken glass, littered about the floor. He pockets the container, spares a final glance towards his prisoner, and ignores the sparkling pieces altogether.

(Yao sleeps like the dead.)

x-----------------------------------------------------x


	6. this is an elixir of love

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-----------------------------------------------------x

x

**006**.  
this is an elixir of love  
(_I am no more or less twisted than you, for I have made you to be me_)

-

-

-

-

-

They fuck for the first time the next day.

When Kiku opens the door, he does not know what to expect. The drug was not experimental; after all, it had worked (_on Chinese soldiers, on Russian ones_). The two of them, Ludwig and Kiku _of course_, would have been more than willing to test it out on Francis (simply to see how it affected a nation, no more or less), had Feliciano not employed his veto power then.

Sentimental emotions are dangerous, he would have believed.

But Feliciano is different, no longer carelessly laughs after falling. 'Good,' Kiku thinks, for that is Ludwig, that is Germany's influence. Feliciano still eats and drinks and _cheers when the executioner has come and gone_, but the lightness is his eyes (that lightness that made Kiku writhe and twist in sick, sick jealousy) has been extinguished.

'Good,' he thinks again.

The room's sole occupant lays motionless on the bed, his tattered uniform (the one Kiku did not bother to change him out of--_yet_) showing the clear line of ribs and empty stomach. His heavy lids are closed, and were it not for the blood trailing from his open mouth, Kiku would have (might have) believed the other to be peacefully sleeping.

He breaths a sigh of relief, strides over to the bed, and sits on the edge. With a gentleness he did not know he possessed, yet another thing Yao must've taught him at one point or another, he lifts limp neck, moving the various pillows (they are all in shambles, but it does not matter, he'll replace them) so that Yao is roughly inclined.

Like a storybook, a _fairy-tale_, Yao's eyes flutter and then open. Kiku manuevers the rice-filled spoon towards the other's mouth. Wordlessly, Yao opens his mouth, taking the rice. Kiku's hand is shaking when he fills another spoonful (_he steadies it shortly_). Yao chews and swallows mechanically, but Kiku does not care for Yao is _eating_.

Somehow or another, Kiku manages to feed Yao the whole of the meal. He wants to ask something, wants a reason to stay longer than the normal 'check-up' period. Yao gives him the reason, grabbing hold of his sleeve. Kiku stares at the hand, bloody and bony and still ever-so-pale. Slowly, he intertwines their fingers, cups Yao's face with his other hand and gingerly presses dry lips on dry lips. Yao's grip on his left hand is light, but unyielding, and the other glides his lips against Kiku's nape. Kiku shivers, but does not stop (_he has wanted this for far too long_).

Yao closes his eyes when Kiku begins to single-handedly unbutton his ripped and ragged shirt. The clasped hands never leave one another, even as Kiku slowly, gently, slides already-loose pants down trembling legs. Yao parts them, eyes still closed, and Kiku cannot remove the entirety of his jacket with only one hand. Neither of them take notice in the clatter of imperial sword and gun, and Kiku has managed to stop his right hand from shaking when he does the buckle of his pants.

It is subtle and sensual and graceful and Yao rises to meet him. Kiku wraps his right arm about the other's thin waist, pulling Yao closer, _closer_, burrowing his head into the crook of the elder's neck. He licks and sucks and sometimes nibbles, but never outrightedly bites. Despite his age and history of conquest, both by and to, Yao is achingly tight, and Kiku sees stars and light and something _more_ by the third fervent thrust. Yao clenches, jerks, and moans. His fingers tighten about Kiku's, and his free hand finds itself buried in short, choppy locks.

"_Nii-sama_..."

Kiku's eyes widen and his mouth pauses in between a kiss at the juncture of the other's shoulder and neck.

He, Kiku, had not yet spoken.

_Is it still called 'love-making' if there is no love to be made_--?

x-----------------------------------------------------x


	7. take it and drink it, my dear

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-----------------------------------------------------x

x

**007**.  
take it and drink it, my dear  
(_A promise to treat you like a queen, so long as you never wake from this dream_)

-

-

-

-

-

After he pulls out completely, he notices that his arms are trembling--either that, or his sight. He stops one or the other, clutching Yao's fingers between his own, tightly, before letting go altogether. Yao's eyes are still closed, though the pallor of his face is slowly going away; a good sign, if there ever was one.

_It's alright_, Kiku forces himself to think; forces himself to leave the bed.

Just as soon as he's buttoned the entirety of his uniform again, a hand, warm and still sticky with sweat, reaches out, and wraps loosely about his wrist. He freezes altogether, and it takes a beat before he swivels his head around, almost expecting an entirely different person to be on the bed. Yao has cracked his eyes open, he sees the orbs to be dull, albeit aware. He wants to question, wants to pull his hand away, because _that is how you break someone_, wants to go away, because he'll not be able to sleep at all with those eyes trained on him.

"_Nii-sama_," Yao pleads, and Kiku feels a shiver race its way through the course of his body.

"What is it?" he responds, because this isn't a dream and--his voice betrays nothing (it has not done so for over a decade).

"I'm lonely," the other whispers, _in his tongue_, and as ingenious a piece of engineering as the drug that brought Yao into this sort of state is, Kiku can only think of how unguarded, how beautiful, how tragic, the elder nation is--like this. But those need not be the thoughts of a conqueror, or a winner, and so, he smiles, indulgent, once more.

Yao rises to meet him, looping arms-over-shoulders and knees pressing forth. His breathes are flighty; uneven, and the moonlight that manages to crawl through the risings of the castle cast the two of them in a sordid light. It matters not, Kiku thinks, marvelling over how well Yao simply _fits_ into him, how easily the other acquiesces now.

This time is the second time; he wants to keep count--and why not. It is different in that Yao is the one actively participating, in that Yao is the one kissing and entangling fingers and legs and tongues, in that Yao is the one without any clothing, in both the beginning and end. And though it is Yao initiating, inciting, this time, everytime his hips brush _just_ that close enough, Kiku realizes that he is the one hard. Before the war, he would have flushed, _would have been shamed_, as such thoughts. But before the war, he would've never been able to have Yao. Today--now, he is different, better, far better than all the Asian and Axis nations alike. But he is _kind_ too, _kind_ enough to not kill all of his brothers and sister; _kind_ enough to allow Yao freedom in the largest room of the grandest palace still standing.

And even now, he is kind.

Smoothly, he cups the other's cheek, kisses it lightly, and shoves Yao against the backing of the bed. With his knees, he manages to part the other's legs, and he does not bother to trail kisses, only pushes Yao further up so that he can situate himself properly. Kiku hears a noise of surprise, and then feels the other tremble and quake, and though he's still not hard, he _will be soon_.

Confidence--it's what he has now, that he did not have before.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs, running his bare hands along the other's hips, waist, thighs, because he wants to hear Yao moan, wants to feel his shake; again and again. His mouth slowly kisses the tip of Yao's member, and he delights in the twitch he manages to elicit from the other. Slowly, slowly, he licks a line up, down, around the hardening organ, and he's aching but he doesn't care when Yao cries, completing his rise with a withering scream.

It is the most beautiful thing he has ever heard, Kiku thinks later.

He doesn't quite finish, but comes very close to it, especially when Yao collapses, fingers taut and tight about the starched-and-dry uniform. Kiku can _feel_ the other's deep, aching breathes, and he wraps his arms about Yao, sucking him off completely before untangling the two of them. He thinks he cannot sleep, will-not-sleep, when he's covering the other with a thicker blanket, taking in the even breaths and tear-stained face.

Kiku dreams of the army--his army, that night. He's paraded with them, gone to the 'detainment centers' and the 'operating laboratories' as well. The emperor is sometimes beside him, sometimes not, and the earth itself trembles when bomb after bomb, plane after plane, and human and human, go off. It is glorious, and it is _just_, because Japan will not be conquered, and therefore, must conquer all else.

The next day, with the sun right through the arches and streaming into the room, he wakes with a panic because Yao _is not there_.

x-----------------------------------------------------x


	8. for this is a gift from above

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-x

x

**008**.  
for this is a gift from above.  
(_there is no time and place that you will ever be able to run from._)

He runs, haphazardly - as if through a dream - across the whole of the palace, looking for Yao. He hears the other's name, echoing across the corridors, and it's only after the fifth time, when he simply grabs a vase and _smashes_ it on the closest wall, does he realize it was his voice, repeating across the halls.

And by then, the vase has already shattered - into a thousand sparkling pieces.

Instantly, he's reminded of Yao's reaction to the food dishes (and how long as it been? two months? _three_?)

"Kiku-_sama_," one of the castle maids approaches, timid and soft-spoken, "One of the monitors have been showing the sound of running water... perhaps the person that you are looking for is in the West Wing?"

"Thank you," he breathes out, before hurrying towards the West Wing. It was the chamber of the previous Emperor - and his _mistresses_. Of course, being the child of God himself, it gave him many priveleges (many _women_), but - ? Doesn't matter; the previous Emperor is long gone, long dead (with his troops and palaces and mistresses), and what matters right now is -

"Yao!" he finds his strangled voice calling out, hand reaching out in some foolish semblance of _humility_ (ridiculous, he knows, because it is Yao who should be humiliated here). "What are you..." He trails off, eyes following the leaking water, from the Westernized tub. His footsteps slow - without his conscious knowledge - as he nears the inner chambers of the room.

It is there that he finds Yao, completely clothed and entirely submerged in an already-overfilled tub.

The water cascades over the edges of the tub, pools over the tiles of the floor, and makes its way over the length of the bathroom, and into the wooden portions of the chamber.

"Yao," he repeats. Eyelids flutter; his heart jumps a beat (careful, restrain yourself, any closer - any _farther_). He steadies himself before advancing any further, because it would not do to 'lose' here - would not do to lose _anywhere_. Yao opens his eyes completely when Kiku is inches away from the edge of the tub, fingers twitching, moving forward, and still not grasping.

There is a dry, hacking cough - it comes from Yao.

Immediately, he's pulling the other out of the tub. Kiku is no doctor, but the blood that is staining Yao's hands, dying the water that light shade of pink, it can't possibly be a good sign. 'What's the matter? What's wrong?' he remembers asking, in his own tongue, because Yao can _understand_, can't he? Of course he can understand - that solution was supposed to, definitely _had_, a 100% success rate.

There is a flash of gold in Yao's eyes, a color which Kiku cannot remember from their previous 'sessions', and then the other is wrapping bloodied hands about his neck, pulling him closeclose_close_ and -

"This is all your fault," Yao hisses.

His mind panicks, scrambles, even while he's tasting the blood from Yao's lips - from Yao's _mouth_. The drug was completely effective, without a doubt. The drug was - is - _should be_...

(You never believed it for a second.)

And then the world fades away.

x-x


	9. the successes of mortality

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-x

x

**009**.  
the successes of mortality  
(_death and birth are the only things that will ever signal change_)

"How are your troops advancing, Herr Ludwig?" Kiku asks, striking a would-be conversational tone. The two of them have gathered for some mockery of a meal. The rations are low, though morale itself is high, and they stand - teetering - on the cusp of victory. So close, so close; Kiku can smell the blood and taste the gunpowder already.

(_Delicious_.)

"As planned," is the crisp reply as pale hands (that of the 'master' race) advance pieces across an already-drawn map of the world. "England refuses to capitulate. However, we've taken all of its allies - Russia has been surrounded, from south to north, and there is simply no way for the allies to achieve a victory from this." There is no smile or nod from the absolute victory. It is a sound statement, as if speaking on the weather, or on how many enemy soldiers had been gunned down in the frontlines.

Basic, normal, boring.

"And what of the French?" Kiku presses, "How are they... being dealt with?"

"The French?" Ludwig pauses in his meticulous slicing of a perfect kraut to look at Kiku with something akin to surprise, "They exist no longer." And here, he allows himself a small smile, "All of those that refused to learn German - refused to enlist in the army and wear an honorable uniform and salute the Führer - are gone." And then he resumes his careful cutting.

"Ah," Kiku replies, taking of sip of the military-grade coffee, "Then what of the state?"

"There is no state," Ludwig responds. "There does not exist a person - anymore - that will call themself 'French'," he raises an eyebrow at the dullness of the knife, before chewing of a sausage, "They are men of the military, men of honor, men of truth, men of _victory_. They are Germans now, Kiku-san."

"Forgive my pressing, Herr Ludwig," Kiku murmurs, taking of bite of his own kraut, "For I am merely curious - seeing as how we have yet to scientificially monitor such incidents, correct?"

"Of course," Ludwig graciously obliges, "Berlin is now the technological marvel of the world."

"What has... what has become of Francis?"

"The state does not exist without its people," Ludwig replies, without missing a beat. "I find it only fair, seeing as how he - they - the _Allies_ completely demolished my Eastern front."

Gilbert; Kiku nods.

"It is..." And for a second, a look of unbearable hatred and disgust overtakes Ludwig's usually placid demeanor. Kiku stiffens, and then forces himsel to relax, as that _look_ fades away, albeit slower than how it had started. "It is sweet and just to die for your country - for _victory_." Kiku catches the tightening grip about the knife and refuses to shy away.

(They are _allies_, after all.)

"He rests in peace," Kiku assures, closing his eyes in humility.

"Natürlich," Ludwig replies. They've been allies - Axis Powers, to be correct - for almost two decades. The war is closer to 'over' than ever before; there is only America and England left to take. This is the world and it is _beautiful_ because he has willed it to become so - _they_ have willed it to become so. Kiku is grateful, even while the gears of his mind are whirring and turning, because Ludwig will always proceed first. Will always win first... and lose first.

He - they - are too far gone to be able to 'lose' anymore.

(Or is it any _more_...?)

x-x


	10. quench their thirsts in blood

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

_warning_: even more!major screwing of history.

x

x-x

x

**010**.  
quench their thirsts in blood  
(_because knives and daggers are simply the less-pained ways of resolving conflicts_)

It is the beginning of a week - which week, he neither knows nor cares. Kiku has the list of 'possibilities' on a sheet of paper; the 'candidates' pictures and names are listed. They have no defining qualities, a dozen or so similar faces, he doesn't really care. There was a solution, would always be a solution. So Francis had failed to maintain sovereignty; had failed to continue _existing_.

It mattered not - he knew of the solution, had spoken with his generals, and had gotten their approval.

(He refuses - with more fervor than he had throughout the entirety of the war - to let Yao end up like Francis.)

And so, he acts. With the signatures of the war generals (_heroes_ of the people), with the acquiescence of the Empress (she had hid her tears; he had refused to see them), he goes to the innermost chamber of the Imperial Palace. The guards know he is, and he needs only give a nod of the head, before they bow their way out. And despite this resolution, this lack of inner turmoil - because he sees the lines, and he sees where to walk and _how_ to walk - he hesitates before turning the knob.

No matter; there's always a larger purpose, a bigger picture.

Always.

"Tenn ou-sama," he whispers, crouching into the most formal of bows. The emperor - _his_ emperor - raises an eyebrow. Kiku is normally strictly formal, but never to this degree. "Surely you have you heard of the casualty numbers on the fields," he begins, because it's better to rationalize this through, "There are more and more good men dying every day - more and more good men willingly giving up their very lives, for the sake of this glorious nation."

(For _my_ sake - in _your_ name.)

"Of course," The Emperor Hirohito replies.

"And if there were some way to alleviate the suffering, to make it even the slightest fraction better..."

"I would do everything in my power to help the people of my country," is the ready response. And for this split second, Kiku finds himself feeling sorry for the other man. There is no way out; it matters not if he has his own mind or not, because he has been placed on a high pedestal - too high to actually get down from. But then the second passes, and Kiku doesn't need to steel his resolve because outside of this plan - there is _nothing_.

(And he will _not_ lose Yao; he is the 'winner' and winners deserve all the possible spoils of 'victory'.)

"Tennou-sama, the generals have concurred with the simplest way to end the entirety of the conflict," Kiku says, taking a sealed envelope from the pocket above his chest and giving it to the emperor.

Their representative from Heaven, their physical manifestation of _God_ - he is trembling with something like rage-fury-and-utter-disbelief with each character of the letter. But years of training - of proper courtly behavior - have been ingrained in him. The Emperor purses his lips in response, folding the letter and putting it in the envelope one more. Kiku knows that any lesser man would be howling and seething and he feels a swell of _pride_.

"What is the meaning of this?" The Emperor's voice is steady, unfazed.

"Precisely as is dictated by the letter," Kiku replies.

"I already have a wife," The Emperor states.

"She has read over the conditions of this plan," Kiku counters. "She sees the possibilities and has given her approval of such actions." Any lesser man might have broken down here, but not him - not The Emperor. And for this, Kiku is still _proud_. Wrongly so, but all the same -

"I refuse," The Emperor crisply says, "This is nothing more than a political gamble. Our peoples will not be able to assimilate so quickly; our cultures have been divided for thousands of years, there is no chance of convergence." And it is a logical argument, but only an arugment at best, and not an actual reason.

Kiku has seen the line - has seen how to get what he wants - _all of it_.

"It will succeed," Kiku replies. "The generals will see to it."

"What of my son?" The Emperor questions, "He has been raised to be an emperor. What will become of him?"

"An emperor he shall be," Kiku says evenly, "The Empire of Japan has many islands, many places of beauty - all worthy of the Imperial Prince to rule. The generals have even agreed to ten thousand person troop, who will accompany him, and never let him catch on to the existence of another Emperor."

"This is ridiculous," The Emperor says, "I refuse to blind my people like this. I refuse to rob my wife of her position - my son of his inheritance. And what of my daughters? My second son? My parents?"

"They will all be cared for accordingly," Kiku assures, bowing his head in some mock form of subservience. "Tennou-sama," he murmurs, and it is the most The Emperor will have of an apology, "The nation of Japan needs you - needs your _blood_, needs your image, your name," he looks up, directly at his Emperor - only to see a face void of any expression at all. "Will you not give them to your country?"

"This is doomed to fail," The Emperor says.

"It will succeed," Kiku repeats.

x-x


	11. oh, all the sunshine in the world

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-x

x

**011**.  
oh, all the sunshine in the world  
(_tranquil places are not necessarily made by tranquil peoples_)

Yao does not know of it, but two days ago, a divorce was announced within the Imperial Family. The Emperor, with only the slightest tremble of the hand, had signed off on his family. A day earlier, the marriage of The Emperor Hirohito to The Princess WanRong was approved, and the wedding celebrations began.

But he knows none of this; sees and hears only what make it past the wooden floors and barred doors; only what make it past the security cameras monitored throughout the West Wing of the Akasaka Palace. Only what Kiku will allow through the webs of lies and deceits.

The doctors have been sent - to no avail, of course. His body is special, even amongst people like himself, because it will break and be broken; and yet, it will do neither in the long run. Yao laughs a bitter laugh, because it is cruel (of God, of the world, of his nation) to leave him here - like this. He cannot even die - even when it is so close, and so sweet!

"Yao," Kiku beckons, unlocking the door to the chamber. The other is dressed in a kimono today, blue and white pattern with a simple black obi. It is... _unusual_, Yao thinks instinctively and then he cannot look at Kiku for too long. He's thinking of other times, better times, and he _cannot_ even remember what they were about and -

(_You can't remember - you shouldn't remember._)

"_Nani desu ka_?" he responds automatically, and even though he knows the shape of the syllables, knows the meaning of the words, he cannot get the taste and feel of sandpaper out and off of his tongue. Kiku turns to look at him, a curious gaze, before striding on the bed. Only then does Yao notice the elaborately-woven kimono - of black and blue koi - which Kiku is cradling in the fold of a sleeve.

"There is a celebration today," Kiku replies, as a means of explanation.

The rooms are heated nicely, Yao thinks, as Kiku's fingertips glide across his skin. Slowly, carefully, his sleeping garments are removed and replaced with more 'appropriate' ones. Kiku lightly presses dry lips to Yao's forehead, and Yao does not know why he shivers. Kiku manages to lift the individual arms through the silken sleeves, letting nothing touch the ground, but it is only when he successfully ties the butterfly knot of the back obi that Yao realizes the amount of time such an outfit takes to put on.

And by then, there is nothing to say, because Kiku has already slipped on his own shoes, helping Yao into his own as well.

"Why do you - " Yao starts, only for Kiku for lightly kiss him, before pinning in a silver-lined hair ornament. It matters not; he didn't know what he wanted to ask in the first place.

(He still tastes the roughness of sandpaper against his mouth - whenever, however, he speaks.)

There is a carriage waiting for them right outside the front entrance of the palace. He doesn't know why, but he knows these steps, knows this place. The outside air is so cool, so fresh, so _vibrant_ - he can't stand it at all. Kiku, uncharacteristically, keeps him close, even during the half-hour ride in the carriage.

(_You can't remember - you shouldn't remember._)

Kiku leads him to one of the lower balconies of the Imperial Palace. Before them stand crowds and crowds of cheering people. A celebration, Kiku has said. A celebration for - ?

The cacophony erupts when the bride and groom embrace and from this distance, Yao can barely - just barely - discern the faintest outlines of their faces. He has seen both of them - he _knows_ both of them. Kiku is clapping, and Yao finds that his own hands are moving, of their own accord, to congratulate the newly-bound couple.

"That is - " he moves to say, and Kiku turns to look at him, before nodding and smiling.

"That is my Emperor, and that is your Empress," Yao's eyes widen, because he knows that face - that person - the one that is wearing a purely white kimono, standing in the middle of the ceremony, heralding all the attention. And he knows her, and knows that this is not where she should be and why is she here and how does he know her and - and - _and_ -

She already _has_ a husband.

"It will succeed," Kiku says, and Yao does not understand. But it doesn't matter - again - because the other is leaning closer and closing the distance between them once more.

Yao tastes his own blood - sharp and dull - and hears a language - like sandpaper - against his tongue. And it is all foreign because -

And it is then, in the deafening symphony of the crowds of people, that he makes out the words. And the people were not cheering; those were slurs, derisions, and threats. A 'celebration' indeed.

(_You can't remember - you shouldn't remember._)

x-x


	12. will not halt this flood

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-x

x

**012.**  
will not halt this flood.  
(_love is many things and it can be hate at times_)

It is a loveless marriage, Kiku knows. He knows that his emperor is still in contact with his _first_ wife, knows that his current empress sits alone in her chambers and refuses to eat and sleep. It matters not; when the child comes, she will be made to do them all, willingly or not. Originally - their plans had been to extinguish the whole of a population, to wipe a group of people away; to clean the slate.

(_But Ludwig's words repeat themselves in his mind - and it is the truth, and Kiku must submit to it - a nation cannot exist without its people_.)

He's gone too far - _they've_ gone too far, lost too much, to be able to lose at this rate, at this time and place. He needs Yao to remain alive, needs to keep the other alive because wasn't it the whole point of this war? A dead prize is a victory on the side of the Allies. And he cannot have a loss; can never have a loss.

"It's alright," he reassures himself. The generals have a plan; a good plan. A new royal family, a new emperor. He will be born and bred to succeed. And then, through it, the people of China will not need to declare independence to someone not of their blood. They will see the face of their empress - and she will be kicked and prodded until she truly smiles - and they will see themselves in the new emperor.

And through that, through that method and mindset, they will bow, they will listen, and they will - the few that understand, at least - they will be able to continue living.

(And then, by default, Yao will be able to continue living - and Kiku will win.)

Nonetheless, precautions are necessary.

Within nine months, the doctors have promised, and seven months have already flown by. Military campaigns (all with the highest percentages of success, of course), government reforms, and educational standards have all been made, remade, and then checked over once more. The nation itself must improve, must be ready to live (_and fight and die_) in the face of the rest of the world. The war is over, after all, and Japan - the island - owns the whole of Asia. The continent is controlled, is brought to its feet, by a floating mass that could only be called its finger.

And he thrills in this - in it.

"It's alright," he repeats to himself, even though he has yet to remember thinking - or speaking - anything at all. He's off to visit Yao once more, he has not seen the other in quite some time. The knob turns; the palace is as warm as ever, the maids as humble and subservient as before, and the drapes as heavy as past years.

Yao sits, reclines really, in one of the larger chairs, facing the windows which Kiku has finally allowed the servants to open. Kiku walks crisply into the room, wordlessly closing the door behind him. Yao is dressed in a kimono - elaborate and beautiful as all his kimonos are. There are three layers - the leaves of autumn trees - forever falling, never _quite_ touching the ground - are framed and frozen in the threads of silk. Yao does not turn to greet him, makes no motion at all, really.

"Kiku," the other whispers, as he makes his way to the chair. Thrice-clothed arms loop their way around his neck, he feels the soft black hair, decorated this time with a matching autumn pendant, against his cheek, and closes his eyes. (_This_ is his reason for the war.) "I saw them, I saw her," Yao says - and Kiku knows what he is talking about, without any context.

"She has a husband," Yao continues, "That child - her husband - " coherency is lacking, but it matters not. Kiku leans down, planting a slow kiss atop Yao's eyelids, runs a hand - ungloved for once - down perfectly-combed locks.

(This is his reason for the war.)

"She has a husband," Kiku repeats, thrilling in sigh Yao exhales when he twines their fingers; skin on skin. "My emperor," he murmurs into Yao's ear, ignores the other's tell-tale shudder, "is married to your empress. And their child - of two bloods - is the heir of two kingdoms." And then he laughs, abruptly, because Yao has said something in a language that is not the _right_ one. "Two, three, four, five, what does it matter?" Another laugh, "This half of the world; its seas and riches and jewels - they are _all_ meant for that child."

He pulls both his hands away suddenly, cupping Yao's face with both hands. He sees himself - black eyes, black hair - in the still-bright gold of Yao's eyes. Yao stares back at him, unblinking, uncaring, and he finds himself coldly infuriated.

"Will you not be happy?" he says - in a tongue that is not his own - before forcing frozen, framed leaves of autumn to fall.

x-x


	13. the gods are too far gone

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-x

x

**013.**  
the gods are too far gone  
(_'we are here to live and die' overstates the fact that there is no problem_)

The emperor and empress come to the Akasaka Palace two weeks before the child is expected to be born. Kiku knows that normally - according to regulations and rules and the like - it is supposed to be the other way around. However, everything is changing and what hasn't changed _will_ change. And therefore, it is alright to request the prescence of the Royal Family.

It is alright to make it so the Royal Family has no choice but to accept, and with a smile, _of course_.

The courtiers and maids and guards and entertainers are all alerted of the arrival. There is a celebration: banners and kimonos, games and laughter, and all of it is so so _so_ beautifully faked, Kiku thinks with a smile. But that is alright as well, for reality is now able to be molded - reality is now nothing more than a man - one man's - vision. And each of those tells a friend, of a friend, of a friend, and eventually, anyone who is anyone in the whole of the two countries (soon to be one country) knows of the location of the Royal Family.

It is only entirely to be expected, then, of assassins and kidnappers, the lowest of the low, those people dressed in rags who have no morals.

(Either that - or they have the wrong ones.)

What was not expected, however, was for any intruders at all to confuse the two wings of the Akasake Palace. Which was, of course, actually a relatively easy error. The fact of the matter was, as luck would have it, Yao's quarters mirrored The Empress' quarters, in location alone. Take one wrong turn - one simple wrong turn - and the intruder would...

"Empress!" a lone voice calls in the dead of the night. "Empress WanRong!" He says, somewhat louder this time around. He knows that she _must_ be in this place, must be somewhere in the vicinity. The agents have promised their souls that she and the 'wretched filth' do not sleep together, that the idea of a child is completely preposterous. And so he holds on to that belief, after having blindly found the switch to the lights.

A split-second for the power to run its due course, and the room is bathed in light.

"_Nani_?" A quiet voice calls out, from the bed-chambers. He does not know what causes him to relax - he's never heard nor seen The Empress, only knows that she is beautiful and that she is alive - what makes him take quick steps to the chamber. And there, before him, awake and alive and perfectly dressed, albert in one of their _disgusting_ outfits, is The Empress. His Empress - his _nation's_ empress.

"Your Majesty," he murmurs, dropping to a kneel and speaking the middle language - heaven's tongue. "Your Majesty, I've come to rescue you from these barbarians," he continues, not daring to look up. It is the final mistake he is able to make in the dead of the night.

"Who are you and what are your intentions," it is a statement, not a question, and the blade that is suddenly, swiftly, horribly, _painfully_ cutting against the nape of his neck is no joke - is no dream. He had thought of glory, he had thought of his wife, his children - all of whom are still alive, still need the money, still need the _country_. The country which The Empress is holding up.

Yao knows, very well, of his state of powerlessness. He knows that he has no say, knows that Kiku will not listen - or regard - anything that he says and does. He knows all this, but never before has he felt the waves and tides of his own powerlessness come down and crash upon so hard. His mouth widens when the man - clearly Chinese - comes in. His hands grasp for a body that is no longer beside him (_and here he knows that Kiku knows of the intruder_). And he cannot say anything, do anything, to warn the man - the father, the brother, the husband, the son - because he's speaking Yao's language.

And it is rough and it is choppy with emotion - and it is _beautiful_.

(It's the first time in _months_ that Yao has heard Chinese.)

He cannot do anything when Kiku is pressing the blade of his sword of the man's throat. Can only watch, with wide, wide eyes, as Kiku turns the man around. Yao is not stupid enough to think - to believe or even _hope_ - that the man will get out alive. How many hours, how many days, his mind is racing, he cannot save this person - cannot save this man that wanted to save The Empress.

(_You can't remember - you shouldn't remember._)

It becomes obvious that Kiku's reason for turning the man around was one of cruelty. The man takes one look at Kiku - who shows no emotion again, and is ever-so-shaded, even when in the bulblight - and the man screams. He kneels down, bowing lower than bower, prostrating himself and begging for forgiveness.

"Your intentions." Kiku states, and the man spills them all forth, begging and pleading for the other to spare his life. Yao's eyes are wide, he should be able to tear himself away from a scene like this. He should be able to - he _must_ stop watching, because - because - because...? The man is screaming, crying, outrightedly sobbing, large tears, running down his cheeks (red, red cheeks). He's not even begging for life anymore, just begging for a quick death - begging, begging, sobbing, and more begging. And Yao cannot say anything, cannot do anything. Cannot.

Just watches.

Just watches as Kiku takes out a smaller knife and his military-issue gun. Just watches as the man begins to bleed, begins to scream, begins to stop crying and start emitting these wails that are not human anymore. Just watches as the blood is dripping across the floor, sinking itself near the sheets, on Kiku's once-white uniform. Just watches - the sun is _rising_ now - as the man chokes, splutters (on his own blood - _on his own blood_) and then collapses.

Doesn't die - cannot die.

(He's been dead for seven hours - _really_.)

(_You can't remember - you shouldn't remember._)

Yao feels himself breathing, feels himself watching Kiku, watching Kiku come closer, kneel by the bedsheets - dry off his bloodstained hands. Feels Kiku's hands - and they are clean (and he will not believe it, will not believe that there _are no traces of blood_) - press, tenderly, along Yao's cheeks. Feels Kiku wrap his arms about him, feels Kiku easily lift him up, up, and away.

x-x


	14. to care of happenstances here

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-x

x

**014.**  
to care of happenstances here  
(_appreciate now and understand later; or was it - ?_)

"One more day," Kiku says as a means of explanation, before taking a kiss and then his leave. For the first time in a year, Yao moves in the Akasaka Palace. From the West Wing to the Center Tower, the one that looks above all else. Not a grand move, but enough to get away from the smell and stench of the blood. There was a man, Kiku had said, when Yao asked one day. A bad man.

Kiku does not elaborate (he never does) and Yao does not ask (he never does). All the same, Yao thinks - for an instant - that he should have known that man. The bad man.

(_You can't remember - you shouldn't remember._)

There is one more day until the birth of the new emperor, Yao knows. There are celebrations - courtiers and maids and guards and entertainers all flock to the Palace once more, giving their congratulations, whispering their condolences. The Empress smiles, does not cry; she is strong and Yao is proud of her. They have exchanged glances, once. No smiles, no words - but understanding. And perhaps he is simply deluding himself, he doesn't mind; this is a prison and he hates it so.

Which is why he's not expecting anything, has never expected anything. The war is over - Kiku tells him that Francis is gone, tells him that Arthur is gone and Gilbert is gone and Ivan is gone as well. He has told Yao that Im-Yong Soo, _Xiang Gang_, Taiwan, Vietnam, Tibet - all gone, all lost to ashes and the world. Yao wants to believe otherwise; wants to call it impossible.

It is impossible to kill a nation, after all. Even now - even after all these years - they are still alive, though their people have lived, haved died, have liveanddied and liveanddied. They are still alive, Yao thinks.

And all the same, there is that nagging bit of doubt. Kiku has no reason to lie to him; Yao gives him nothing, Yao is _able_ to give him nothing. He has taken everything; there is nothing else to take. And so - Yao thinks, in these long (_and lonely_) moments that he has to himself - if there is no reason to lie, there is no lie. (There is no lie and they are all dead and you will be dead too - would be dead too.)

"Yao-_hyung_!" A voice hisses, most likely from the recesses of his mind. He ignores it, though his heart is clenching (_and did he ever - really - forget_?) and he thinks of children that he once had. "Yao-_hyung_!" the voice repeats, and a hand - a figment of his imagination, of course - reaches up, through the window of the tower. There is a knife in the hand, it slashes through the screens with a fervor and vigor that Yao remembers, that Yao remembers laughing at, loving.

A face he'd never thought to see again smiles, albeit weakly, through the window. And then, Im-Yong Soo pulls himself up, and Yao stiffens, taut and all-nerves and unwilling to move. He - Im-Yong Soo - is so close. _So so __so_close. And he cannot touch him, cannot feel him, because he is not real and those are the facts. The other nation stares at Yao through tired eyes, eyes that _were_ bright, eyes that _would've_ shone. 'So my mind has aged you as well,' Yao thinks.

"...Yao...?" Im-Yong Soo asks, his voice quivering that small bit. With trembling steps and shakier hands, the younger brother - the one that does (_not_) exist - goes over to shake the elder. "Y-You're Yao-_hyung_, right?"

"Please tell me this is some kind of sick joke, aru," Yao replies - in his own tongue, for the first time. He feels his face heating up, feels the spill of tears, right on the tip of his eyelids, ready to spill out, ready to leak over. He stifles them; this is just another test, just another mind game, just another delusion. And then Im-Yong Soo's face shifts. Switches, really. And Yao, he -

(_You can't remember - you shouldn't remember._)

Blood. The man - the father, the brother, the husband, the son - was bleeding. Was screaming, was crying for help. Kiku. Kiku - Kiku - _Kiku_.

"You have to get away," Yao whispers, grabbing onto the illusion. It's funny, because he can feel the ripped and tattered garments underneath his fingers. "You have to get away from here, aru," he repeats, shaking Im-Yong Soo out of his reverie. The other stares at him, sees the fear, as Yao sees the anger - the hate.

"Not without you," Im-Yong Soo replies, and Yao _knows_ - for that instant - that this is a real world, that this is a real person.

"I can't - " he starts, but he doesn't know how to end it. Leave? Go? Stay? Run away? Yao doesn't know what he _can't_ do, but he knows why. The nation, The Empress, her child - it will be born into a world of hate and anger, of unfairness and war and distrust - the future emperor, himself, Im-Yong Soo; the others. "I can't - " Yao says again, feeling helpless, finger twisting, grasping, not wanting to let go of reality.

"You will, _please_," Im-Yong Soo tries, tugging on the sleeve of Yao's kimono.

And then the footsteps start.

Kiku.

_Kiku_.

"You have - you _have_ to - you have to go - " Yao tries to hiss out. His own tongue feels foreign, he can't quite make out some words.

The images; that man. He was dying, dying - praying to not be killed. Praying to be killed quickly. There's nothing more - he's gone, he was one of Yao's countrymen - gone, dead, painfully so. Im-Yong Soo stands; Yao can already see him, writhing and screaming and twitching and howling on the floor. 'Save me,' he hears, from the other - from his countryman, from his brother. '_Save me_,' they all say - as he sits and just watches and does nothing. Does nothing because Kiku is there, and Kiku is overpowering, overwhelming.

"Yao-_hyung_?" Im-Yong Soo tries, again. He is not gone, the footsteps are closer, closer. When Kiku comes, he will have one sword, two knives (one dull and the other sharp) one gun - military-issue, .38 caliber. And Im-Yong Soo will only have the knife. Will only have the balcony to inch down. Will only - will only...

"You _have_ to - " Yao starts, again, getting up with a quiet rustle of robes. The footsteps, he hears them. They're closer - Kiku and his guns and swords and love of violence - they are all getting closer, closer. Im-Yong Soo reaches forth, tries to touch his sleeve. Yao grabs his hand, twists instinctively, and releases as soon as Im-Yong Soo lets out any sound at all. "You _must_ - you must leave - " Yao tries, again, pulling the other to the window.

"Yao - " Im-Yong Soo starts to say, and Yao can see the other, bleeding and crying and dying, screaming his name, hissing his name.

So much blood - too much blood.

"I'm so sorry," Yao manages to say - in his own tongue. The tears have broken by the dam, dripping onto Im-Yong Soo's face. The ground is some fifty meters or so from the ground. It's night - the guards, _Kiku_ - someone is coming, someone is always coming. Slowly, he dips forward, brushing his lips against Im-Yong Soo's forehead, like he did in the days of boats and horses.

And then he lets go - lets everything go.

x

Kiku finds Yao, two hours later, near the windowsill, with an absolutely pallid expression. The child has been born - a baby boy, healthy, albeit entirely quiet. Yao, on the other hand, is mumbling some words, looking down, looking up, and then crying some more. The scene shocks Kiku more than he'd like to admit - for while Yao has not smiled in over a year, he also has not cried for almost an equal amount of time.

Simply remained _there_ - like a doll, like _his_ doll.

The tears that drip down Yao's face are not like the fat droplets found on flower bushes. No - they are the streams, flowing, only to stop. Yao is muttering something, repeatedly, and Kiku notes that he has clutched the side of the window to the point where his own knuckles are white - and then stained with blood. Kiku would ask 'what-is-the-matter,' would hold Yao close - but he does not.

(It's all blood under the bridge; all blood - all under the bridge.)

"_O kinodoku ni_," Yao laments; I am so sorry, Kiku thinks, reaching for the other, only for Yao to repeat it - again - "_O kinodoku ni_."

I am so sorry.

I am so sorry.

(_You can't remember - you shouldn't remember._)

x-x


	15. they lurk in darkened rooms

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

_update_: 24 chapters total, no happy ending, and still more squick coming up.

x

x-x

x

**015.**  
they lurk in darkened rooms  
(_show them light in their darkest hour and you will hold the greatest power_)

The guards find the body at the base of the tower. Bones are broken, blood is splayed across the wood, bricks, and mortar, and the whole sordid mess is cleaned up in the dead of the night. Kiku observes, and tastes the copper of blood in the back of his mouth, because this was once a person; once a person like _him_.

But Ludwig's words are repeating in his head; 'a nation cannot exist without its people'; 'a nation cannot exist without its people.'

And it is true, and it is by definition. There was a heart that once beat, but then again - there was a person he had once called 'brother'. Kiku turns when the water flows red, the stench of blood pervading the night air all the more. Blood, bones, and ashes - that's all the person who was a 'brother' will ever amount to. But not _him_; not Ludwig, not Feliciano.

And not Yao - he refuses to leave the other 'behind'.

With those thoughts in mind, he walks up to meet the other. Blood is still staining the sleeves of the silver-and-gold kimono, but it is of no matter. Kiku snaps his fingers, summons a maid to bring up a clean garment for Yao to wear. The other has retired to the bed in the center of the room, curling into a shivering, shaking, _sobbing_ shell of himself.

"It's alright," Kiku soothes - and _no_ he does not see his own hand shake - reaching over to smooth Yao's hair down. The other does not look up, or change at all. In a muffled voice, he hears the ever-steady chant (in his own tongue, no less) of 'please forgive me' and 'I am so sorry'. Kiku curls his lip, in distaste and disgust, but does nothing to stop the other.

He does not want to admit that he _cannot_ stop the tears.

"The child of our combined empires has been born," he murmurs, lacing his gloved and bloodied fingers through Yao's matted hair. "He is healthy; the sun shines on him." He frowns, because Yao does not so much as look up. "He will see other nations shake and bend before him," Kiku promises, because he sees that glorious future - and it is hardly far away.

"She - the empress - " the maid stutters out, yet another beautifully crafted kimono nestled in her trembling arms, "She asks for permission to see a person by the name of 'Wang'."

"I shall go," Kiku responds.

"S-Sir," the maid asks, and he turns. "Wh-what am I to do with the old kimono?"

"Burn it."

x

The empress WanRong sits in a room which is completely flooded with moonlight. It is where the Emperor himself sat, during the Tanabata Festival, providing a perfect view of the full moon. Kiku kneels before approaching her - as is courteous to do so. He casts a glance about the room, before taking note of the child sleeping in her arms.

"You are not Wang," she notes, turning her face to see a sliver of the full moon.

"I am not," Kiku replies, stepping forward - towards the empress. "Allow me to hold the child," he commands. She offers no words, simply releases her hold on the enfant. The newborn child does not stir at all and were it not for its steady breaths, it could have passed as stillborn.

Kiku gazes - with as little passion as is possible - on the sleeping face of his future Emperor. Instinctively - as close to genetically-programmed as anything else in their world - it is the duty of the nation to love its leader, as it is the duty of the citizens to follow said leader. He will, Kiku knows, accomplish and bring forth new things, _great things_.

(And through that - and by that - the plan will succeed.)

"I have decided on a name," the empress says - and nothing more. It is in this single moment that Kiku sees a sliver of her intelligence. A name wouldn't have mattered; the choice does not lie in her hands and she knows it. Just like she knows the child is not her's. She may have carried him for a little over half a year, and she may have given birth to him - healthy, alive, a _boy_ - but it matters not.

Kiku says nothing, only continues to stare at the child.

"Will he meet Wang?" The empress asks - almost pleads. Almost. She still has not turned her face from the open window, from the stream of moonlight, and in this light, Kiku sees the curve of Yao's cheekbone, the lashes of Yao's eyes.

"Of course," he murmurs, because the child is _their_ emperor. The empress nods, once, and Kiku notes how the soft light illuminates the ebony of her eyes - just _so_. The child continues to sleep, unaware of the world; whether it is at peace, or at war, and Kiku thinks of himself; of forests and sunlight and days long, long, long ago.

"I will love him," she promises, "When his power and will bring your nation to ruin."

She - the empress - walks to the window, and Kiku barks out a madman's laugh. She keeps her eyes trained only on the moon, and he does not see the single tear that makes it past her eyes. Kiku is fast - but for this single instant, she's faster. Because she gave him the boy, because he _asked_ for the boy.

The Empress WanRong is much more calculating and cold-hearted than he ever had reason to believe.

She leaps from the window - falls to her death - and that is, perhaps, the most freedom she has ever been allowed.

And through it all, the child does not wake, does not stir, and does not cry.

x-x


	16. and eatdrinkbreath this fear

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

_update_: will finish by December 31, 2010 - my late christmas gift for your continued loyalty

x

x-x

x

**016.**  
and eatdrinkbreath this fear.  
(_will you ever understand another person in entirety?_)

The workers clean up the second body with relative ease, and the splotch of mottled brown at the base of the castle soon fades away with time and sunlight. Kiku does not - for the first time - feel anger at being outsmarted, though for _why_ he cannot say. The almost-graceful leap she, the Empress, had taken - it still burns at the back of his eyelids.

(With unsettling clarity, he can see Yao in her place - Yao crumpled in a heap on the ground. And because of the clearness of this vision, he is all the more determined to best the future.)

And through it all, Kiku thinks that he has never been the fool; that it is not in his nature to tempt - much less compete with - fate.

So he orders the guards to move Yao from the outer room to the deeper chambers. While there are still windows, they are far too high to reach, as the price of sunlight (and the sky) is that of an expansive ceiling and carpetted floor.

When Yao refuses to leave the bed, Kiku does not even bat an eye; he simply has the guards move the bed.

Inconsolable is the perfect word to describe him. His shoulders shake, but he cannot cry anymore, because he has no more tears left to give; simply all the sorrow in the world.

Kiku will not admit it, regardless of the truth in the statement, that it is an act of desperation (of cold, calculated desperation - but desperation all the same) that makes him bring the still-unnamed child of their two empires to Yao. He has to restrain himself, restrain the twitch in his fingers, as Yao takes the child without question, without word.

And like that, Kiku watches as the two of them erupt in identical smiles; the child gives some cross between a gurgle and an outright-laugh, while Yao's lips merely quirk upwards - _pleased_. But all the same, and only because Kiku has studied - over and over and over again - every single line and wrinkle in Yao's face; memorized it for the sake of remembering, it is the same exact smile.

'Whose child is this?', Yao does not ask.

"Asahiko," is what Yao murmurs instead, wrapping his arms ever tighter around the child; nurturing, doting. _The rising sun_, Kiku notes, and would have felt a surge of pride, for Yao was speaking _his_ tongue. Except - except - he recognizes, even better than the smile, the gentle touch of Yao's fingers, over matted black hair. The graceful sweeping-back of said hair, to place an ever-so-light kiss on the child's forehead.

"Asahiko," Yao repeats, as the child, with none of the innocence Kiku would expect of a two month old enfant, fixes his gaze upon Kiku, and then blinks back towards Yao.

"The Empire of Japan is... _happy_" - and Kiku almost (almost) has to choke out the words - "that the Empire of China has found the new Emperor to be pleasing," Kiku stiffly says, as he reminds himself that it is as-close-as-possible to genetics, to biological programming, for representatives of nations to whole-heartedly love their leaders.

All the same, he forces himself to turn away, when Yao hums a lullaby, in his own tongue, without his own words, and the enfant's eyelids grow heavy. The scene is reminiscent; painfully familiar, and it is - as Kiku is in the process of convincing himself - everything that he has ever wanted.

So when Yao tucks the child into his own bed, getting out of the layers upon layers of silk and down for the first time in months, thinner than ever, but still able to walk, Kiku offers his hand, and Yao takes it. A swift motion, and yet, measured and slow - Kiku closes his eyes, brushes their lips, and Yao, once more, presses softly back, clasping their hands, intertwining their kimono-covered arms.

And Kiku feels - amidst the waves of relief and affection when Yao whispers a Japanese blessing and kisses the new emperor's forehead once more - a spark of something that he can only deem to be 'hate'.

x-x


	17. this is a story of goodbye

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-x

x

**017.**  
this is a story of good-bye  
(_time and again takes us by surprise_)

"The Republic of Deustchland gives his most cordial greetings to the Empire of Japan," Ludwig states, bowing deeply as Kiku welcomes him into the newly-refurbished imperial palace. Yao sits, swathed in robes upon robes (today the maids have chosen a curlique of roses and thorns for the sake of a European gesture), playing with the heir apparent.

The two of them playing some child's game with a ball and string, to which Ludwig stiffly nods.

"It is nice," he begins, as the two of them sit themselves down in chairs a room away, "To see your nation in prosperity," he grins - a mix of malevolence and pride - at the German-engineered arches and ceilings and sanitation. "Mein Führer..." he starts, then licks his lips, and starts anew, "My leader enjoys seeing children at play too."

"Shall we proceed accordingly, Ludwig-_san_?" Kiku seamlessly interrupts, forcefully changing the topic. Ludwig looks startled for a moment; Kiku wonders if, perhaps, he had been lost in the train of thought about his brother, before shaking his head - shaking himself out of an apparent reverie.

"Of course," is the solemn reply, as Ludwig unfurls the sixteen-odd sheets of layman's paper, all embedded with rows upon rows of designs. Designs of military marches and solemnly-lined barracks; a gun that can take a plane down from the sky, without a need for human aim; an improved method of disposing of corpses, for the streets are starting to smell.

x

"Who is that man?" Asahiko tonelessly asks, five years old and completely aware of the world at his fingertips. Yao blinks, because it does not seem - he cannot remember - that time has passed so fast. His fingers fiddle with the ball and string, wondering why the future Emperor can still delight in such a simple toy, especially at such a late age.

"He is..." a pause, because that is Ludwig, but he is no longer a friend, "an ally," Yao concludes, listlessly passing the string through his fingers, like Kiku had done time and again to his hair (it's even longer now; almost to his elbows).

"He's a foreigner," the child notes, with mature vocabulary and tasteful choice of sentence structure. His tutors have been up in arms, Yao vaguely recalls, because he says he has no need for them. Asahiko returns to playing with the string and ball, taking both out of Yao's hands. There was a time; there was a lady - a boy, bleeding on the floor, and the name of an empress he cannot remember.

"Asahiko-_kun_," he murmurs, pressing his forehead to the boy's, hoping against hope that by some string of genetics, some twisted string of fate, the child will - "Asahiko-_kun_," Yao repeats, "Do you know how to speak my tongue?"

A beat, setting it out in stone, a quiet whisper in the afternoon silence, as Ludwig and Kiku discuss the most efficient temperature for cremating bodies. The heir to the empire's throne (but, not, the heir to the _emperor's_ throne) closes his eyes for a second, and then opens them again, before leaning his head back so that their foreheads are no longer touching.

"Yes I can," Asahiko replies, in Kiku's tongue, and Yao knows his spirits are about to come crashing - and still lets them be held high, as the other continues with, "for the tongue of Yao-_hime_ is that of Kiku-_sama_."

And for a split second, there's a look of utmost pain on Yao's face - as if someone had just slapped him - before it flashes out.

And in response to that facial expression, Asahiko's face contorts as well: a quick quirk upwards of his lips, mockingly familiar to Yao's earlier smiles. Yao is too lost in broken dreams to notice.

"...hime?" Yao repeats - the word for 'princess' in _Kiku-sama_'s tongue; uncertainty and staggering disillusionment, clouding his eyes. "But I am..." he tries, as Asahiko gently, almost sweetly, rips the piece of string in two, soundly crushing the glass ball underneath his five-year-old feet. "I am not..." Yao tries again, as he looks to his hands, looks to his arms.

They are pale, slender, and for the occasion of Ludwig visiting, the maids have decided to apply varnish - but only in the lightest tint of pink - on his nails. The insides of them are scraped clean, a striking contrast to the long-ago days (that he can - just _barely_ - still remember) when he was a farmer, working the fields. But then, farmer's arms are not always enrobed in layers of kimonos; farmer's arms are not so uselessly weak.

"Yes you are," Asahiko easily says, needing to stand on tip-toes, even while Yao is sitting, in order to plant a soft kiss on Yao's cheek, "Yao-_hime_ is the world to Kiku-_sama_," he continues, "But..." and entirely unexperienced hands (and maybe, Yao numbly thinks, Asahiko is actually seven, eight, or nine?) play with a lock of long, black hair, "_I want more than the world_."

x

These meetings - however few they may be nowadays, as the war is nearing its end, and there is, really, only America and Canada - only _Alfred_ and _Matthew_ - standing. Ludwig reaches forth his hand, shaking with Kiku, as they roll up their plans of future constructions. And through their dull, emotionless mutters and statements, the scene is oddly... _silent_.

Where is Feliciano? - Kiku refuses to ask.

"They will fall soon enough," is what he says instead; Kiku has never been one for empty consolation, and this is as close to a promise as he'll ever make. Ludwig nods, solemn as usual, casting a glance across the room, into the adjacent one, and Kiku follows his gaze. Yao sits alone, poised and disheveled all the same.

"He has left to visit his Pope," Ludwig says, in a manner of response, a curl of derision and disgust making his way around his sharp features. Kiku raises an eyebrow, reverting his attention to Ludwig, and the door, once more. "_Opium of the masses_, indeed," Ludwig mutters, as Kiku is the one bowing this time around, holding open the door and silently saluting as Ludwig makes his way to the chaffeured vehicle.

"Yao," Kiku whispers, after he has closed the door on Ludwig, entering the de facto playroom (if one were able to exist in the Imperial Palace), completely void of any toys. "Yao-_hime_," Kiku calls, twistng and twirling some heavy strand of hair. Yao jerks away - eyes wide, posture stiff, stiff, stiff. It's not so much as anger, as it is bemusement and despair, that Kiku sees in the other's eyes.

Golden, golden - not at all like anyone else he's ever known to live - eyes.

(One glance; one touch, it's in Yao's every move and breathe and thought and word; and like that, Kiku _wants_.)

"_Wo hai pa_," Yao confides; the first time in a long time Kiku has heard him speak in his own tongue (no, no, his tongue is yours - _he has no tongue to call his own_), and Kiku needs to strain, not only to hear the words, but to comprehend them as well. _I am scared_; of what, Kiku does not know, does not care to ask.

"_Kimi wa utsukushii_," Kiku replies; you are beautiful - the antithesis of a response, as Yao's hands clutch tightly at his shoulders, shaking and quaking in silent sobs. But his statement still rings true, even in the eternal melancholy Yao seems to have lost himself in. Time and again, Kiku finds himself thinking - over and over - that Yao is everything in the world for him.

And still - Kiku knows this fact even better - the world will never be enough. Yao's sobs (for a later day? for a past land? for a lost tongue?) slowly subside as he places the other on one of the lower-level mattresses. The emperor has not been seen in weeks, but that is because _Tennou-sama_ refuses to be anywhere near his heir. But it will work - it will work, it will work, it will _succeed_, Kiku whispers to a still-awake, still-shivering Yao.

And he aches with want - but he has his world, all for the taking, all for _his_ taking - and so, he leaves the room - the world, without taking anything at all.

(The world will never be enough, for that is the nature of want.)

x-x


	18. this is a story of hello

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-x

x

**018.**  
this is a story of hello  
(_it is a curious thing how easily our wants change_)

"Not now," Yao says - just barely above a whisper (his lips are on the shell of Kiku's ear; a shiver running down; quick-quick-slow). Kiku's hand, pale and cold and not blood-splattered today, has crept up the slit of his nighttime robes, lightly grazing the soft inside of Yao's thigh.

Kiku, in response, raises an eyebrow - curious and a little bit bemused, before turning his head and almost, almost, _almost_ narrowing his eyes at the person standing in the doorway to their shared chambers. The palace has changed so little, despite the fact that Asahiko is now of fifteen years of age, lithe and pale, entombed in dark blue robes, with dots of imperial red (bloodstains; so much blood) on his sleeves.

"Not now..." Yao repeats, softer, moving away from Kiku. Kiku reverts his attention, choosing to slide his hand up even higher, delighting in how quickly Yao stiffens, arches, and then stiffens once more. "Asahiko-_kun_..." Yao tries, limply tossing his hand in some direction, as Kiku buries his head in the crook of Yao's neck. Asahiko makes no motion, to either come closer or go.

He just stays, at the medium between entry and exit, as Yao feels that he has for the past eight, nine, ten years.

"No," Kiku murmurs, licking and nipping (he's still too scared to outirghtedly bite) as his hand grabbles about on the sweaty moistness of Yao's skin. They're both, in the most literal terms, completely dressed at this point - Yao in his _usual_ flowing kimono, butterfly-knotted with matching silver hair pendants; Kiku in the standard military-issue dress, white and gold and no red in sight.

"You have to - " Yao starts and stops, because Kiku has shifted his other hand, ghostly and cold like Kiku himself, intruding (poking, prodding, placating) as it parts the various folds on the kimono. Yao arches, and then turns his head, burrowing itself into Kiku this time around; refusing to continue looking at Asahiko - looking at them.

Kiku, for his part, does not acknowledge Asahiko's presence at all - keeps his eyes focused on Yao and only Yao.

Asahiko: fifteen years old and on the cusp of prepubescence, watches, faltering between disgusted, entranced, and fascinated. Watches Kiku-_sama_, whose world is Yao-_hime_, kiss and touch and take and defile, his lips moving, tongue darting out every so often to taste and _lay claim_. This is, he realizes, their everyday world - by the look of Yao-_hime_'s limp arms and dull expression, cut short in that fleeting moment, as Kiku-_sama_'s fingers (and Asahiko can see them crystal-clear through the four layers of silk) and mouth make Yao-_hime_'s treasured golden eyes snap open.

A single moan, soft and low and just that little bit strangled, cuts through the silence.

Kiku looks over his shoulder, as Yao is panting, his eyes locked onto Kiku's figure; an alien mix of humiliation and malice, and Kiku finds that he _likes it this way_. (This way, at least Yao is still looking at him, at least Yao is still looking _only_ at him.)

He turns to let Yao rearrange his robes, to give him the privacy that he has always been given after the act. Kiku looks at his hands, sweaty, and just the slightest bit filmy with substance, and walks camly over to the adjoined bathroom the two of them share, running the tap.

German engineering, he thinks, as the steam clouds the mirrors (and still, does not obscure his sight) and the tub is halfway-filled. He neatly undresses, crisply folding his uniform on the steps nearby, and steps one level at a time, into the scalding water. It is, in its suffocating heat, almost reassuring - he can feel the bloodstains that are not there wash themselves away.

And like this, with the lapping, running water and the army miles and miles - seas and seas - away, he can almost lose himself to want.

"Kiku," Yao pronounces, shaking the other abruptly, and fully, awake. Kiku's eyes are wide, his entire body is tense; wondering if this is a dream, and why would he dream of this, except that Yao has never come into the bathroom with him. "I want more," he says, as Kiku notices that the other is wearing only the undermost layer of his nighttime kimono.

That, too, is soon shed, as Yao climbs in, sinking into the water, sitting across the tub from Kiku.

"What are you - ?" Kiku starts, before _Yao_ gets the better of him, reaching across to cup his face, kiss his cheek - gently, sweetly, softly. And then the hardness of his length is pressing up-too-close against Kiku's hip, and he's reminded, with the starkness of absolute reality, that Yao is still a man; will always be a man, regardless of his style of dress or length of hair.

(He does not know if he minds - only that he wouldn't have it any other way.)

"I love you so much," Kiku says, and this time, he is the one who is using a different (using the _wrong_) tongue, as he reaches his hands towards Yao, and - finding only a hand, delicately places a kiss on the center of the palm. He kisses the tip of each finger; exalting, exalted - in what he believes (and this is, sadly, the only truth in can find in the ruins on their worlds) to be love.

"I love you too," Yao says - in Kiku's tongue, as he presses up close - needy, needy, greedy. His legs are already parted, the water sloshes and slops around them; it's reached the three-quarters mark on the tub. Kiku presses in, hesitant at first, because this is - Yao is - _it must be a dream_. And then Yao whimpers - "_ai, ai, ai_"; 'love, love, love' - one of their few shared words, and Kiku is all too ready - shoving and pushing, as the miniature waves create a dull, thudding rhythm around them.

The draws are slow, steady; Yao clenches his legs around Kiku, jerking his hips up as his eyelids flutter, and Kiku thinks of eternal, irresprisable beauty, once more - as Kiku thinks of forever and _eternity_.

And when he comes, Yao is whispering, over and over and over again - _the wrong name_.

Oceans away, so far apart (oh you generations of mortal men - how can you pretend to see the sky?), a tattered white flag rises above the ground; the final surrender of the enemies. And for the first time in twenty years, Ludwig lets out a laugh - barking and stilted, like Gilbert would have laughed. Feliciano - blood on his face and an empty smile in his eyes - laughs too, despite the knowledge that none of this will last.

x-x


	19. it tells of how even heaven

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-x

x

**019.**  
it tells of how even heaven  
(_the need for stifled conversation kills itself_)

He is eighteen years old, on the month, day, and minute, when the first of many _Hime Matsuri_ - The Princess Festival - comes to pass. It is right on his birthday, a result of a snap of fingers at the dinner a month prior; why not celebrate the birth of the crown prince, as well as the ever-so-timely death of his mother? The adoring public (the crowds who would so willingly throw their lives away for his holy imperial blood) would enjoy it just as well.

Asahiko knows his father as well as he knows his country; that is: not at all. his existence has been sheltered to the point of isolation, and he knows, for the maids have told him time and again, that in another time and place, he would have merely been the bastard son. Never the crown prince.

It is with a maddening sort of calmness, he later reflects, that he orders those servants to be ripped apart, limb-by-limb. Those experiments - the one's on his _mother_'s people (no - no - she was not his mother, therefore, they are not his people) have been testing the limits of the human body... and, by extension, of the human mind.

For all the things he does not know, he knows much, much more than they - his 'dearest' father, those 'wonderful' advisors, and of course, the ever-so-trustworthy _Kiku-sama_ - would like him to know.

His 'father' is a puppet with so many strings he can hardly be manuevered anymore; the military used to have quite the bit of dissention - and then they simply executed all suspected protestors (and now the army runs once more like a well-greased machine); Kiku-_sama_, and Yao-_hime_ (he has long since guessed, from those wayward glances, that the other was the true reason for the _Hime Matsuri_) cannot die.

The last fact, he knows - not from hissed whispers, or the reading of the council scrolls, but rather, by personal experimentation. In a month's worth of time, as a result of their shared wing and shared meals, he had fed the two of them enough cyanide to fall half the army, and still - neither of them seemed to have any symptoms at all.

Immortality - forever, eternity, and the subsequent black-and-green morality of immortals - troubles him, particularly the idea of immortality with Yao-_hime_. And he is eighteen years old and the council is choosing for him a bride, and by the whispers of it, it seems that they wish to dilute _Tennou-sama_'s blood even further, by having him wed a Chinese bride.

Nothing is eternal - no one and nobody; empires will fall, sink to their knees, perhaps even so far as the sea, this he has not learned from tutor after tutor; they all sing of the millenia of Japanese domination - none of them believe there is an end to the prosperity.

Asahiko is eighteen years old, with - apparently - royal blood in his veins, standing in front of the Japanese people, in an upper balcony of the Imperial Palace, side-by-side with his father (who cannot wait to leave this ceremony and visit his _true_ wife and children) who are waving banners and flags; celebrating his birth - celebrating his mother's death, celebrating the prescence of princess that they cannot see.

And through it all, he thinks of eternity and tears - of all the lists of women who will be paraded in front of him (in front of the council - in front of the military-run council) until one will be selected. And he hopes against hope, in the face of eternity and immortality itself, that the council will _somehow_ choose Yao as his bride.

Like that - he knows - that despite his apparent maturity, he is still a child through and through.

x

"I do not understand why it was necessary for the two of us to go outside at all," Yao notes with an arch of an eyebrow, reclining against the well-padded chair, as Kiku sits himself down in an identical chair a few feet away.

Today is the inaugural _Hime Matsuri_, the Princess Festival, as Kiku has told him, kissing his fingertips and plucking blossom petals from his hair. There are floats with the parades, little masks for the girls, and child-sized guns for the boys. There is absolute prosperity in Japan, was is evident in the constant gleam in Kiku's eyes. And, as one of the original dependents (upon Japan, that is) - there is some vague prosperity in what was once called China.

"I made this festival for you," Kiku replies simply, as Yao purses his lips, immediately taking note of the 'I'; as if Kiku were the ruler (though, in terms of consolidated power, he is the one person whom the council will listen to). "Your attendance was not for your people to see you - it was for you to see your people." For every 'your', Yao has learned to hold back his flinch - but it makes his stomach wrench with each stressed repetition.

Kiku smiles, in what would be an indulgent manner (but there is still that ever-present spark of hate), before reaching over to gently caress Yao's cheek with a fully-gloved hand. Yao takes care to not clutch at the armrest of his chair; that would give him away - give away his disgust.

(This is your brother - he killed your brother - you have to kill _him_; this was your brother - he killed - you have to kill too.)

"Never forget," Kiku murmurs, getting up entirely, before kneeling to lean his head on Yao's kimono, "Never forgive." He has a rather wicked smile on his face, as he looks up to Yao (Yao-_hime_, Yao's mind derisively adds) and it takes Yao a moment to realize that Kiku is speaking to him. "Remember Im-Yong Soo, and WanRong-_hime_."

Images flash in front of Yao's eyes - memories that he has not forgotten (never, never, never).

"And then," Kiku continues, as Yao averts his golden, golden eyes (Kiku's are too - too dark - for him), "then you will always remember me," and his grin could be almost lopsided - tantalizing and painful, if not entirely nostalgic (and Yao forces himself to stop thinking of _Nihon_, to stop thinking of the little boy Kiku will _never be again_), preening up to brush his forehead against Yao's dry lips.

"I only love him because of you," Yao responds, because he knows the memory of him - writhing and wanton and _calling out Asahiko's name_ - is still fresh in the other's mind. There is some shred of truth in that statement, and Kiku laughs, a bitter unknowing parody of Ludwig. "I..." it will be four thousand years soon, and he has known Kiku for half of that, and still, Yao thinks there to be a happy ending, "I see the old you in him," he tries - strives towards.

"There is no 'old me'; I've always been like this," Kiku soberly retorts, and edge of envy and anger in his voice that Yao is all-too-used to hearing. "And besides, you love him because he is the child of your last Empress."

"Release me," Yao tries - but this is the first of a long line of lies he will be telling (revenge is sweet; he may have once loved Kiku, as close to a brother as possible, but there is _no more time _for sweetness; for weakness). "You will never be able to keep the world, so why do you even try?" And even now, Kiku's tongue is foreign, distasteful, on his own - and with each word, he reminds himself to stay on-target.

(He has been passive for too many decades.)

"No," Kiku mumbles, burying his head in Yao's lap; his fingers clutching tightly onto the elder's robe. "_Nii-sama_, _Nii-sama_," Kiku's voice is strained - almost pleading, though the words are spoken as if part of a nursery rhyme, "I've loved you for so long, and now I finally have you - will you not stay?" It is the cry of a child - of the child Yao would like to think Asahiko-_kun_ to be (he should know better now; he still does not want to know).

"No one will ever own China," Yao simply replies, as Kiku rises easily to his feet - the insanity and anger that came as a result of his new status as a worldly superpower visibly rising in his black eyes. His hands itch to strangle, but they satisfy their lust for blood in Yao's whispers of hate, hate, hate.

"_Hate me, hate me, hate me_," Kiku repeats, again and again, fingers clenching, clutching - and this time, eyes fully open, lip curled back (although he still sweaty and twitching), Yao comes, hissing Kiku's name - the _right_ name, nails digging into Kiku's shoulder's, mouth savoring Kiku's blood. This will not be the first time, Yao instinctively knows - but the end is near.

And so, the night of the first _Hime Matsuri_ ends, dappled with tears and blood.

(It's a promise; you must keep it - _bring about their fall_.)

x-x


	20. acquiesced to those below

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-x

x

**020.**  
acquiesced to those below.  
(_may you live long enough to die young; for only then will it be tragic_)

Yao creeps into his room in the dead of the night; warm fingers, fluttering robe, light and lilting voice. For the first time, Asahiko - in an entranced stupor - thinks the person whose body is illuminated by the barely-there light of the hallway is his long-dead mother. And then Yao speaks, soft but pliant all the same, and the only thing Asahiko knows how to say is _yes, yes, yes_.

It is smart of Yao, he thinks later, to ask for a promise in the dead of the night. And it is foolish of himself - and still, he is only twenty-two years old, and no more mistakes will be made - to agree, and then think himself dignified enough to keep such a promise.

In a laughable parody of the other's footsteps, he creeps into the room of the man he has never known (and will never know) to be 'father'; there is still some serum left; more than enough for a human. And the emperor, in the face of his holy blood and grand speeches gestures, is still only a man at heart - with affections for his family and his nation, and nothing else.

(There is certainly no room in his heart to love a bastard son.)

Out of some mockery of piety, Yao turns his face away, as the Emperor that led Japan - in spirit and blood alone - to absolute victory in the Second Great War, passes away, with no fight or fuss. His face is peaceful in the waning candlelight of the hallway, and if the trickle of blood did not give his state of being away, Yao thinks that the coroners might have declared the death to be perfectly natural.

x

There are whispers upon the generals that there is a new emperor in the Land of Rising Sun, and so, they hurry back from their already-abandoned battlefields in jets and planes, hushed murmurs surrounding the whole lot of them. Kiku raises his hand, calling for silence, and there is not a single military leader who will speak in the face of the other's hand.

"It is with greatest sorrow that I must inform you noble and honorable generals," Kiku begins, his normal ivory-and-gold military attire traded, just this once, for an ebony-and-silver suit with epaulettes, "that our dearest and most wise _Tennou-sama_ passed away peacefully in his sleep just two nights prior." He lowers his head, and the generals mimic the action, before sitting back down once more, hands folded neatly over the table.

"And what evidence do we have," one of the younger generals interrupts, "That the death of our glorious Emperor was truly the wish of fate?" His words are carefully chosen, his gaze is purposely blank, but the threat in his question is evident in the stiffness of his posture. The generals surrounding him stiffen as well, as Kiku's gaze drifts, rather boorishly, over the unflinching new face to the council table.

"Muto-_kun_," one of the older generals try, but Kiku waves a hand, and he too, falls silent.

"Our dearest and most wise _Tennou-sama_ passed away peacefully in his sleep," Kiku repeats, emotionlessly, keeping his gaze with the once-nameless general. "The nation of Japan requires that all of the generals report for both the coronation of the new Emperor, and the funeral of the most dear and wise previous emperor."

"Oh, _this_ is just grand," the same young General snorts, "You are demanding that we first place the Emperor's bastard child onto the throne before we acknowledge _Tennou-sama_ to be dead?" In the wake of the old Emperor's death, the older generals around the table know better than to question the declarations of Kiku-_sama_; insolence cannot be pardoned twice.

Shimada does not flinch, or even bat an eye, before pulling a gun and shooting his fellow general. This, too, has become a common occurrence, most certainly because there is no one to fight anymore - nothing to avenge, nothing to take, nothing to kill. Kiku raises only an eyebrow; he can hear the maids, hesitantly scurrying forth (they, too, have become used to blood being spilled in the Council Room) and knows he needs to finish this meeting soon.

"The Coronation of the Heisei Emperor will take place tomorrow morning," Kiku concludes, standing up and bowing formally, despite the corpse to his left, "It is the most humble wishes of the Empire of Japan that the ceremony will be graced by the presence of Japan's most honorable generals."

He lets the threat hang in the air, departing the room first, with a hard clack of shoes, and the resounding closure of the door.

x

Asahiko - the Heisei Emperor, as the Showa Emperor has deigned - is coronated a few months after his twenty-second birthday, with the blood that he wiped off from the previous Emperor's jaw (from his _father's_ jaw) washed clean from his hands; and still, he can smell its allure. Kiku-_sama_ and Yao-_hime_, he can see from one of the lower platforms, dressed in black-and-platinum and white-and-gold respectively.

He does not understand how Yao-_hime_ appears with no blood on her sleeves; free of guilt and responsibility. But for this, like their shared immortality, he wants all the more. (The world is not enough; the world is _never_ enough.)

x

The year is 1962 and the world has finished - briefly - its shake and quake and toil. There is a temporary ceasefire, and Kiku - Yao is betting on - will mistake it to be 'peace'. The two of them are, after all, far too isolated up high in their rooms in the Imperial Palace. Kiku, like Yao, cannot hear of the unrest, cannot see the dispassion in Feliciano's eyes.

Neither can Yao; but he is biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment (bets will be set, and there will be no debt to pay off, regardless of victory or defeat). There are only three empires in their current world: the Empire of Japan, the Republic of Germany, and the Italian Empire; split up between them, the various fallen countries - some are allowed to keep their tongues and cultures.

Others are tortured into acquiescence - intangibility.

In the face of his lot in the end of the war being almost... _bearable_ (no, _stop_ - you speak blasphemy, revenge is the only think on your mind, on your lips, in your heart), he has promised, night after night, to not forget - to never forgive. _Xiang Gang_, Im-Yong Soo, Taiwan (the shriveled shell of a girl she has sunk herself into; can that be called _alive_?), and the Empress. Never; never; never.

So he lets himself rest his head on Kiku's shoulder, as the other clenches tightly about Yao's hand. Asahiko - soon to be the new _Tennou-sama_ and Yao feels his heart brimming and aching with love, love, _hate_ - casts a glance at the two of them, in their seats on the platform-come-balcony. It is the most of an apology he will give; Kiku takes no note - dreaming, still, of an infinite empire.

x-x


	21. rats are still scurrying

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-x

x

**021.**  
rats are still scurrying  
(_there is only one tool-of-trade in this world: the lie_)

Kiku apprehends Yao - alone and in their chambers, a rare moment with war looming so closely (he will not believe it; will not acknowledge the pressing crisis; it is good that he is not an emperor) - the evening of the coronation. The funeral is scheduled to take place the next day, the priest has been told that the Showa Emperor died in good health, at peace with the world.

It is for the sake of the Empire, for the sake of the people in the Empire, that Kiku will continue to hold such a heinous lie to be a truth.

"Why did you kill him?" he asks, walking into the bedroom; the drapes are half-open, Yao is lying on his side, eyes completely open, hair draped across a sea of red pillows. Kiku waits for the other to answer, and when it becomes clear that Yao will not give a response, he walks over - sitting down, black uniform and silver epaulettes and all - on the opposite side of the bed, back towards Yao.

"Why did you kill him?" Kiku repeats, as Yao shifts.

Silence permeates - he used to enjoy (used to _love_) this serenity, this peacefulness; no more, no more.

"For the same reason you want what you can never have," Yao replies, as Kiku feels him turn over, either on his chest or his back, silk robes swishing with the silk bedsheets. It is the beginning of a conversation - the same conversation that they have been having for four years, and still, Yao does not grow tired of Kiku's response. "And you are wrong," Yao continues.

"How so." It is more of a statement than a question.

The startling contrast is made all the clearer by their respective postures: Kiku is stiff, ever-so-formal, with his back turned and fingers crossed; Yao is at-ease, limbs splayed across clean sheets, hands loose, hair undone. Particularly after the council meeting, Kiku does not understand (and still, understands all too well) why it is only Yao, even this many years after the war, who he will allow to act like this.

"It was your beloved _Tennou-sama_ that killed him," Yao murmurs, and there is a shuffle of limbs, and Kiku turns - marginal bemusement dancing in his eyes; this much power, Yao knows that it is unwise push (and still he does, and still he _will_) - to see Yao holding a vial of clear liquid, printed neatly with German characters: _Zyanid_.

"I have the world," Kiku starts, and though Yao scoffs, Kiku continues all the same, "And I have given it to you - I have given you reign of the most beautiful palace in the land, the child of your Empress - a child of our shared blood - has ascended to the throne. I have given you a tongue, I have spared the lives of your people; I have given them _peace_ - will you not be satisfied?"

He has a good third of the world under the name of his nation - he has assured the continued survival - if not prosperity - of not only China, but their neighboring nations as well. The council is completely under his thumb - will soon be under Asahiko's thumb, and still, Yao will not bend.

"Lies, _lies_," Yao whispers, in a sing-song fashion, as Kiku turns himself completely, and still finds himself entirely entranced, "I care not for your darkened love, let me return to the of the past - when I was _happy_, aru." It's in his childish tone, the lightness of his words, and the gracelessness of his characteristic (many, many years ago) end-note, that causes Kiku to snap.

Yao laughs when Kiku's hands place themselves around his neck; Kiku himself straddling the other, knocking the air out of Yao.

(And still, he has enough breath in him to laugh.)

"Kill me, kill me," he chants - in a language that is supposed to be Kiku's.

"Look to the _future_," Kiku demands, even as his fingers are tightening their grip (his heart is racing, pounding away, because Yao's flowing blood is beating right underneath his grasp), "I _will_ pull you out of that past," Kiku vows, as Yao is still laughing, laughing, laughing loose arms not even bothering to put up a fight. "Remember me, always," he hisses, drawing blood underneath his nails, as Yao peacefully closes his eyes.

"I will never, never, _never_ love you," Yao promises, even as his hips are jerking upward, the hardness of his member pressed against the folds of the kimono, and Kiku releases his hold on Yao's neck, moving his fingers to brush against the apex of Yao's hip; Yao digging his long, painted (once again, once again) fingers into Kiku's hair, into Kiku's scalp.

"I have made it," Kiku says - and he has forgotten how many times he has said this before, "so that there is no one else for you to love," and he plants a kiss at Yao's completely-clothed waist, left hand scissoring and right hand caressing, all while Yao moans and writhes - coming, again, to Asahiko's name, golden eyes snapping open, daring Kiku to repeat the previous statement.

Kiku himself finishes a couple minutes later, his dirty fingers - four of them, that is - pressed greedily in Yao's mouth, other hand snaked around Yao's waist, pressing himself deeper and deeper and deeper still. This time, Yao's eyes are open, teeth biting _hard_ on Kiku's already bloodied fingers, and he calls the right name.

x

The Council is, at first, reluctant (if not outright _violent_) to Asahiko's changes. But Asahiko has the backing of Yao-_hime_ (as they have all learned to call Yao by now), and with the backing of Yao-_hime_ is the dispassionate support of Kiku-_sama_. And so, one by one, the reforms are passed in as little as a month: generals are now forced to report to the Emperor with any and all military plans, and the Emperor is to draft any and all armaments.

Needless to say, the Council Room did not stop smelling of blood and gun oil for weeks after the initial (particularly grudging) concurrence on the military council's part. Kiku says nothing; Yao does not go near the Council Room with good reason.

And Asahiko, against even Yao and Kiku's expectations, manages to prove everyone wrong. He has been brilliant from birth, this, Yao is aware of. He is capable of holding his own in any discussion, Kiku acknowledges. But it is in the otherworldly ease which his wants get passed, and the success of said plans - neither Yao-_hime_ nor Kiku-_sama_ could have anticipated.

It is in his blood, the forever-adoring, perpetually-worshiping public continue to whisper, gaiety and surprise in their eyes as _Tennou-sama_ announces that there will be no need for rations in a few months, for the army will soon acquire their materials from other sources. And there is a month-long celebration - where the sake cups are painted in blood from fallen armies (and still, the alcohol is _delicious_), when _Tennou-sama_ makes good on that promise.

In a matter of months, Asahiko has managed to turn the jeers into approval into complete and unquestioning loyalty - for it is easy for the public to fall in love with a person whom they know nothing of (and still, there are whispers and shots in the council room - a result of his bastard blood).

Ironic, he thinks, that he should feel such a kinship with Kiku-_sama_ - who still comes to every council meeting, who still sits in some platform or balcony with Yao-_hime_ during every festival - for though Asahiko has his kingdom within his fingers, dangling on a string, Kiku still has everything he wants.

x-x


	22. bats are still hurrying

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-x

x

**022.**  
bats are still hurrying  
(_we were created for the purpose of being destroyed_)

Shell-shock was what the soldiers from the Great War called it. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder was what doctors in the middle of the battlefields of the second Great War called it - in the middle of losing all humanity and hope and being blown to pieces in the midst of it.

It is a _human_ ailment, Feliciano knows, as his older brother has told him many-a-time with an all-knowing grin.

Now that grin is a sneer and his once-daring eyes have been dulled. It is a human ailment - they are nations, they are not humans, and as a result, they are not supposed to suffer from the the same things. In fact, if Ludwig is right (and Ludwig is _always_ right), then it is not possible for them to suffer, not when they are at the cusp of another golden age, another Pax Romana.

But if Ludwig is right, then _how_ are all the beautiful old buildings - of the Greeks and the Romans, of the Renaissance and the Enlightenment - how are all these beautiful buildings being torn down, whether by enemy bullets or allied fighters? Feliciano is no fighter, does not want to be, makes no effort, has only been out on a front once.

He has not been fighting. Ergo, he is not a soldier.

All the same, shellshock is the only word he can use, when his eyes are too sore and dry and coated with grime and dust and _misery_ to even blink, much less cry, as the last hinge of the Colosseum, that glorious marvel of his people, crashes to the ground, dejected - rejected. Everyone is helping the effort, everyone has been helping the effort for years.

There is no end, there is no hope of an end; they must keep fighting, Ludwig says, cold blue eyes that burn with hatred for a brother he lost, against three entire countries of people - men, women, children, mothers, husbands, friends, lovers - shot and burned and bombarded to the ground. They must keep fighting, even when it is Feliciano's people crying, begging, wanting change - willing to throw away their lives to not -

Here, he has to close his eyes, because it is reality, and it has been _decades_ and nothing has gotten better and -

Feliciano knows he will be called a coward. He knows that there are alternative choices. But he is also tired of fighting; of the smell of rotting corpses mingled with the burning ones, of the neverending cries for mercy, for food, for god-given salvation, for _death_. He is tired, and so, he stops.

Stops everything - and even then, it will never be alright.

x

"_Herr_ Ludwig - " Kiku tries.

"_Ruhe_!" the other nation cuts in, sharp eyes and sharper tongue, and Kiku does not need to be fluent in German to understand what his ally has said. No one could have expected it, is what he should say, it was completely foolish, and now they will simply add another four or five cities to their list of targets.

"What we must do," he starts up again, "is simple." And he licks his lips, impatient and impassioned (but alas that is Ludwig and it is a dangerous mix for anyone to feel).

"He... Feliciano... Italy is an ally," Ludwig responds, as his dirty nails tap an angry melody on the edges of the desk.

"Italy was an ally," Kiku dully repeats.

"We will not - " Ludwig starts, and then revises himself, "The Republik of Deutschland will not be the one to bomb Italy." His eyes, for that moment, finally stop racing through all four corners of the room and fix themselves on Kiku. The other nation bows his head, not in aquiescence, but as close as mute words will allow.

"But what of - " Kiku starts - again - but then the door to the conference room opens, and both sets of eyes narrow.

Their respective delegates (military leaders hastily donning the thin veil of diplomacy: fake smiles, sharp glances, analyzing every single movement) stiffly each others' shake hands, and it is the way neither of them tremble which makes Kiku - falsely - at ease.

x

The jolted clack of military-issue boots over the ceramic floors of the palace are a mockery, standing testament to the raging silence of the stroll from the meeting room to the central council chamber. Everything it seems, from the emperor to the councilors to the generals to the intellectuals (the few that are waiting to be silenced - like the rest), has been moved to Akasaka, placed tenderly within Kiku's reach - within Asahiko's reach.

He refuses to ask any questions of the tight-lipped man, forces himself to fade to the background when they enter the inner chambers of the emperor himself. The general drops to a single knee, and pronounces a declaration of war against both Germany and Italy in a tone that seems neither apologetic nor dignified.

Kiku thinks of the pipes and guns and bullets and bombs that were all influenced, in some way or another, by the other two countries.

Asahiko, he notes, seems to mull this piece of information over, placing a hand under his chin, as if this were some interesting problem, as opposed to an issue of pressing national security. It is his youthful appearance, Kiku immediately tries to rationalize, but stops himself from making the same mistake the previous general in charge of diplomatic relations made.

The emperor blinks slowly - once, and then again, before snapping his wrist, in a careless wave.

With a gait similar to a rat, the military general runs away.

Kiku stays, because for the first time in years, he remembers this room, with its high ceiling and low balcony, how the workers cleaned away both body and bloodstains overnight, and how, in the following day, there was no trace, save for a silent unnamed child, of the empress. Asahiko, too, has most certainly forgotten. He was not more than a couple days old at that time, it is ridiculous to think that he would have any sort of conciousness before the age of three.

It is a languid gaze that Kiku takes, that stretches from the bottom corner of the ceiling to the separate ends of the grand room, still furnished in draping silks of the imperial colors, still strangely traditional in the midst of such a modernized dwelling. He ends looking at, moreso observing, Asahiko, who looks back, with tinges of a challenge, and something darker in his eyes.

'I will love him,' - and in this room that he has been in so many times before, he can hear her voice and the dripping _hatred_ she held - 'when his power and will bring your nation to ruin.'

He leaves without a word, returning to his end of the palace, where Yao will be - sitting, sleeping, perhaps walking aimlessly around, pacing like the beautifically trapped mockingbird he is. And even now, Kiku can hear the wrong name being whispered in the dead of the night, a smile that he has all but forgotten, and a desire that even Ludwig will be sacrificed in order to take.

Small talk is unnecessary, is a weakness.

And he is weak - he is a nation, he is better than a human, and yet, he is still weak - because his hands tremble just that noticeable amount when Yao smiles (wicked with teeth) after Kiku accidentally reveals the current state of international affairs.

An entire wing away, Asahiko muses over the situation, fingering withered petals - lily, rose, camellia; desire, love, perfection - from some smiling, bumbling courtier or another. 'Marry her,' the generals, the council, had suggested, lewd grins and feral smiles, 'Or her or her or her or her - ' any of them would have been acceptable.

And they are acceptable - perhaps even beautiful in their own right. They are simply unacceptable for _him_.

He is the emperor of a nation and still his heart is weak.

x-x


	23. no flowers rest over these tombstones

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-x

x

**023.**  
but no flowers rest over these tombstones  
(_nothing but everything happens during the winter_)

The first flakes of snow are in the process of falling when Asahiko has - in a lapse of judgment and capitulation to selfishness - asked Kiku to visit the outer regions (districts, provinces, _territories_) of their empire, more as a show of faith than any actual favor, but it nonetheless removes the esteemed Kiku-_sama_ from the confines of the Akasaka Palace.

And, as a result, subsequently frees Yao-_hime_ from the confines of Kiku-_sama_'s ordained locations.

This year, he has passed twenty-four years of existence, and of those years, two were spent leading a nation, and twenty of them he can remember with Yao-_hime_.

"Yao-_hime_," he asks, bowing at the waist, as if the other was of royal ancestry, "Would you like to go outside and see the first snowfall with me?"

"Of course," the princess of the palace replies, and follows it up with, "If that is what the emperor wishes."

With an elegance that Asahiko finds impossible to replicate, Yao leaves the main chamber, swishing robes and softly-tinkling decorations. The other's long, purposeful hair, Asahiko notes, seems to have stopped growing, curling a couple inches below the elbow.

He waits, as a young man of his age would do, while Yao changes into garments more fitting for the harsh cold, his suddenly unfocused gaze needing to latch onto something, anything, in the expanse of the room. While it is not the first time - by far - that he has visited the chambers of Kiku-_sama_, it is the first time he has been in them without the knowledge - much less implicit consent - of Kiku-_sama_. Yao-_hime_, most likely, is not aware of this subtle difference, and Asahiko does not find it important enough to mention, as he lounges facing the slowly-graying world.

It is strange, the lilting way which snow falls, he thinks, how it piles and piles and piles without any notice, until it is surrounding you, encompassing your entire body, and you are too cold to feel and too tired to complain.

"_Tennou-sama_," Yao murmurs, a hint of amusement in his voice. Asahiko snaps himself from his thoughts, turning his head to give his attention to the other.

The trees in both the inner and outer gardens are bare, but he takes Yao to seem the snow-covered branches all the same. The soft silence of the world about them is more than enough impetus, because he is twenty-four years old and knows what he wants - sees it right in front of him and how the larger snowdrops fall sweetly on thick eyelashes.

Even now, Yao-_hime_ reminds him of a caged bird; he is cruel and wicked like everyone around him - and so, he wants.

With a steadied hand, he reaches forth to clasp about Yao's face. He watches golden eyes widen, before realization dawns, and they blink once, before closing. Yao-_hime_'s hands, steady as well - perhaps, could this be (_oh, but no, reality will never be this good to you_) - loosely hold onto his shoulders, and with the same force as the falling flakes of ice, he presses their equally-cold lips together.

Asahiko is the one to turn away first, cheeks unnaturally pink; twenty-four years old and still not entirely an adult.

They leave the inner gardens in silence, and Yao-_hime_ is able to return without aid back to the watchful chambers of Kiku-_sama_.

The following day, Kiku-_sama_ returns, swathed in praise and brimming with trinkets - bloodstained, but trinkets all the same - for Yao-_hime_, who sits quietly in the corner chair, while he smiles and sometimes hums some mad melody or another (_this war is hard, you know? harsh and hard; harsh and hard_), sticking one ornament out, dropping another two, and loosely entangling three or four more.

"Mine," Kiku whispers across smooth slick skin, shivering in distaste and delight as Yao arches in ecstasy, and the dozen-or-so decorations in his hair all tinkle softly on top of the overstuffed mattress.

Asahiko does not see this, although he knows that it is happening (it has _always_ been happening), in much of the same way as he does not see the bombs - dropped by both German and American and Russian planes - being tossed, carelessly (as if each one does not weigh twenty or thirty lives at the least) over Japan's major cities.

x

Despite the fact that Kiku-_sama_ is around the palace, Asahiko continues his laughable mockery of a courtship, with hidden flowers and gifts, some that Yao-_hime_ will find impossible to distinguish from Kiku-_sama_'s, and others that only Yao-_hime_ will be able to know.

There is a blooming red mark, like a blossom (like a _bloodstain_) in the area below Yao's right ear, right above the jawline - a mark which Asahiko made, quietly, _possessively_. He kisses every fingertip, drinking in the sensation like a man rescued from the desert dunes, dry lips grazing over Yao's knuckles, wrist, arm. Kisses, kisses, kisses, light - and yet they are prone to lingering nonetheless.

Yao-_hime_ never says anything during these sessions, never looks perturbed or disturbed, sometimes amused, but most of the time, simply lenient. He will observe the emperor (already a quarter-way through life, and still, he is only a child in-comparison) most of the time, watching his reactions to his own actions, and cloth himself when it is over and never say a word to Kiku.

As with everyone and everything and all activities, Asahiko grows more confident with time - and as the weeks slip by (and more and more cities fall, to flames and starvation and invading armies - as Kyoto is under siege and rumors of cannibalism in Nara float around) - his hands eventually dare to skirt around the undersides of Yao-_hime_'s robes, the marks from his kisses grow redder and redder, and he comes to Yao-_hime_'s room, of his own volition, in a short amount of time.

This is how Kiku discovers the two of them: carnally entwined, Yao's face flushed, legs parted like a whore of the court, hair completely down and draped in thick black locks over his bare shoulders - bitten with kisses, flushed with exertion. And Asahiko - the emperor of the nation (the emperor of _his_ nation) - whispering sentiments of affection, adoration - complete and utter and eternal devotion - while thrusting gently, fervently.

The icy rivers of winter find their fast way straight through his veins and he does not (will not, can not) mind them.

Kiku stands as still as a statue, even after Yao sees him - in a haze, through fluttering, if not fully-lidded, eyes - he still stands, waiting - almost patiently, for Asahiko to finish, for Asahiko to _drag_ his trembling, sweat-soaked hands over Yao's body, clutching on, at the very end, to Yao's hair, and burrowing his face near Yao's shoulder - love, love, _love_.

There are many reasons for this sudden streak of twisted kindness, Kiku thinks. He is surprised, and uncertain of what to do. Yao has been, for _years_, hissing the wrong name - this will be the first and last time. Asahiko, after all, is still only a child - and only a sentimental human being, so he can be easily pardoned for his indiscretion.

But of everything -

There is resonance; the raw, burning, painful _want_ that Asahiko has so clearly had for so long - Kiku can feel, Kiku can understand.

But if Asahiko will gain any inclination to take his - to take _Kiku's_ - position in Yao's world...

It is with this in-mind that lets him calmly unsheathe his sword. Asahiko is the emperor, after all, (_he has no wife, he has no heir, what will you do now?_) it would not do to let him go with undue amounts of pain. And so, he stabs him, one time - quick and simple; short and sweet. Yao closes his eyes, most likely imagining the sword running him through as well.

And, he does not know why he is surprised - why he feels this sudden inconsolable _sadness_ - but his vision shakes, quakes, and blurs altogether, as Asahiko mutters words that Kiku once, long ago, understood.

This is his emperor's dying wish (and yes, he _is_ the only one who can listen to it, and _no_ he is not without morals, not without honor) and he cannot muster the energy to make out the blood-choked syllables.

x

Although Yao has not planned it to this extent, he has, within all reasonable doubts, always known it would come to this. Kiku kneeled over the naked corpse of his emperor, ankles and wrists literally drowned in blood (royal blood is blood is blood is blood though), and he himself sprawled mere inches away, breathing in the scent of death.

(_Decay, corruption, you used to not be able to recognize these traits by smell._)

It surprises him, shakes a core within him that he did not know he still had, when he takes in Kiku's sharp inhales and ragged exhales (like an animal, like a _beast_), an alien contrast to the warm tears flowing down his cheeks (you are _never_ to view him as 'human').

Kiku's entire uniform is stained; drenched and drowned in redred_red_, and his war-torn shoulders are shaking with the weight of the foreign sorrow. And it in this moment that Yao really looks at the other, for the first time in a quarter of a decade.

The years and years of endless fighting have been no kinder to Kiku; whereas Yao has feminine locks and flowing kimonos to show, Kiku, in turn, has inherited sunken eyes with a constantly death-ridden pallor. And of course, a population that has been reduced by half - these are the treasured spoils of the Second World War.

Were it not for his youthful frame, and the sheer pride that keeps his spine so stringently straight, Yao thinks he might mistake the other (who looks more and more like a demon with every shaking, shuddering breath) to be his elder. But the time for pity, for compassion, for any sort of humanity, has passed years ago. And so he clenches his fists and purses his lips, and waits for this disconcerting display to end.

Seconds ; minutes ; hours.

When Kiku finally regains control of himself, the wind and snow have momentarily stopped. But Asahiko's body has not stopped bleeding, and the room still wallows in the stench of dead flesh. He removes himself from the bed, with movements smooth and controlled, and regards the weapon he has embedded in the former emperor.

In that time period, Yao has dressed himself once more, and turns his head - eyes dull with war - to look at the other nation.

"Did you plan this?" Kiku asks, that same undercurrent of violence swimming in shallow waters in his tone.

Yao does not answer, simply turns his head.

(And in the wake of the winter's silence, the engines from the bombers start up once more and - like gunned birds - the explosives begin again to rain down.)

x-x


	24. this is the castle of silence and bones

x

A Castle of Silence and Bones

x

x-x

x

**024.**  
for this is the castle of silence and bones  
(_happiness exists elsewhere_)

Tokyo is under siege, the edges of the city bombarded day and night to the point where the smoke from the clouds of napalm block out both moon and sun. The city borders are shrinking at an exponential rate, and the generals all know that it will only be a matter of days - perhaps _hours_ - before one the three invading armies wins out.

In the midst of this chaos and destruction, yet another formal ceremony - the most well-kept tradition of them all, takes place - in the name of nothing but tradition.

The procession walks somberly through the central halls, where the tapestries have been eaten by moths and the smell of backlogged excrement permeates the sealed and then re-sealed doors. It is, Yao muses, more of a funeral than a coronation. This is, after all, how all empires fall - with a shrill dying gasp, for Kiku is - like the generals - unwilling to see, even for a second, the reality of the situation.

So be it, he thinks, following the other nation, whose back is as straight as ever, whose tears have been dried a week ago, and whose uniform is as crisp and clean as the beginning of the war.

(_Appearances, appearances._)

The head of the council died three days ago, visiting Kyoto, hoping to rally support. The bombs were quick, but unforgiving, and Yao loves them for that. In place of the old man, the young general who accidentally threw the nation into a war with Germany - with naïve passion all but methodically extinguished - reads the ancient texts, says the appropriate passages, skims over the blasphemous ones. His head is reverently bowed, and Yao marvels at how they all manage to retain some shred of dignity - and he disgusts himself all over again.

Kiku kneels and, with his iron hold over Yao's wrist, forces Yao on his knees, on the dirty, barely-swept, ceramic tiles.

Yao turns his head, just the slightest degree, and Kiku purses his lips but says nothing, as the custom-made headpiece (with its strings of gold and weighty jeweled decorations) is placed over his head.

The young general only stumbles once through the reading, but his wrist shakes so hard while he is placing the headpiece on Yao that Kiku narrows his eyes and falls the other - a single wasteless shot through the center of the forehead - the second the ceremony is over.

This is how used they all are to the constant carnage: no one bats an eye, and everyone returns to their respective chambers, like walking corpses, without purpose or mind.

x

_Emperor_.

The word rests heavy on his tongue, and he refuses to say it, wrenching it deeper on his own lips with a sneer.

It's all a sham; all for show, nothing in the world matters. It might have been his own suggestion, his generals - however few - might have been too terrified of the impending, inevitable death to protest, but still, it was not what he had wished for.

After all, how can a nation be an emperor - how can a nation be a nation without any people?

(_The answer: it cannot_.)

He can still smell Asahiko's corpse, even though they have already buried him, and the remaining maids have cleaned the entirety of the chamber, from end to end. It is the scent of betrayal and desperation and some ridiculous fragment of hope.

He needed to, but of course, crush it without hesitation.

"Yao," he whispers, and he hates how his voice is coming out broken.

(But he will not be afraid of death.)

Their roles have hardly been reversed; he will make certain of this, because the empire is crumbling and still he wants to _win_. Their roles have hardly been reversed, and yet it is Yao who is gazing indulgently at Kiku, as if it were some odd centuries prior, and he was still the weak and whimpering child.

His lips curl again, as his fingers clench onto a thick fallen lock of long black hair. Oddly enough, Yao is on the bed today, knowing curve of cheek and judging eyes and smooth, flowing fingers. Kiku inhales the scent of plum blossoms, and pretends that he cannot smell the ashes and bloodstains that come with them.

It is Yao who presses their faces together, his face looks to be uncharacteristically filled with emotions. And then Kiku closes his eyes (_he does not want to see anymore_) and allows his tongue to snake out, allows his mouth to open that ungodly bit, trying to taste (_trying to devour_) Yao in the few moments there are.

(He may be a murderer and a defiler of tradition - but he has not blind to the truth for the past four years.)

"Only you," he mutters, as his hands as sliding the robes down Yao's body once more. He nibbles and sucks, attempting to drink in every detail, and Yao allows him this favor, looping his arms over Kiku's shoulders, parting his legs and pulling the other for a softer, longer kiss.

Perhaps this is how he had always imagined it: sweet and slow and gentle; where he pressed himself, still ever so needy, but not with the same amount of rush, into Yao, truly drawing it out; feeling Yao tighten about him, feeling every stretch and pull of their muscles; letting a pleasant shiver make its way up and down his spine at the way his name was pulled, long and lilting, in the midst of a kiss.

Yao throws back his head, cheeks flushed and lips bruised - and it is the first time Kiku can remember the other truly closing his eyes, truly calling his name - with Kiku's thumbs firmly clutched on the inside of his shaking, sweaty thighs, pulling out that small inch, only to push in with more insistence.

The scent of sweat and sex is not, however, enough to overcome the odor of death and decay.

Kiku finds that he does not mind at all, biting down hard enough to taste the bittersweet eruption of blood as he shudders heavily before coming. Yao shakes as well, sparse seconds later, raking his nails across Kiku's bare back, arching and gasping and sweating and panting.

When it is all over, Kiku painstakingly takes away his hands, easily sliding out, hands already picking up the fallen garments.

Yao, for his part, merely clutches at the undersides of the pillow, chest still heaving, cheeks still pink.

"Why?" he breathes, and Kiku needs to strain his ears to make out the language that he has not acknowledged for years. Kiku blinks, because Yao has never conversed in these past thirty-or-so years - but he does not need to ask to know (_immediately_) what Yao is asking for.

So he fastens the final button on his flawlessly white uniform, taking two steps to clasp his fingers about Yao's wrist, placing a kiss at the center of Yao's palm - a kiss that lingers for a moment too long. His coal-black eyes meet with Yao's golden ones - for a fleeting second, before averting them.

'For love,' he wants to say - would like to explain; heart beating dully with dreams lying shattered all around him.

So he says nothing - and watches blankly as Yao pulls a handgun - military-issue, but of course (who could have given it to him, Kiku's mind is racing; a general, Ludwig, Feliciano, a servant, a maid - _Asahiko_) - from beneath the pillow. It is point-blank, and the most important factor of this situation is that Kiku is frozen in place and will not draw either of his two weapons.

Which is why it is _relief_ he feels when the East Wing of the palace trembles, a booming explosion the telltale reason.

"You were a fool to wish for the world," Yao says tonelessly in his own tongue, mellow and drawling - irony in the midst of the bombing.

The blood-colored blossom numbly stemming from his chest is not able to distract him from the mockery of smile that has made its way to Yao's trembling lips. The gun clatters to floor, and Kiku thinks - in the smog of the fire and the madly dancing light of the flames - he can see a hand reaching out towards him.

The castle falls.

x

the failings of immortality  
drown in tears and ashes  
falling slowly to the earth  
watch, this is beauty as it crashes.

this is an elixir of power  
this is an elixir of love  
take it and drink it all, my dear  
for this is a gift from above.

the successes of mortality  
quench their thirsts in blood  
oh, all the sunshine in the world  
will not halt this flood.

the gods are too far gone  
to care of happenstances here  
they lurk in darkened rooms  
and eatdrinkbreath this fear.

this is a story of good-bye  
this is a story of hello  
it tells of how even heaven  
acquiesced to those below.

rats are still scurrying  
bats are still hurrying  
but no flowers rest over these tombstones  
_for this is the castle of silence and bones_

x-x

_fin__**.**_

(Thank you so much for your endless patience and support! I will, thankfully, make good on my beginning statement for this fic - so for those that stayed with the story, thank you so much! [And maybe we'll meet up again in another fandom, with another shared pairing, wearing different masks...?] Ah, but I'm getting too sentimental...)


End file.
